About this blog

I am beginning to forget things.
Like my reading glasses
or the sentence I just read
what I was about to say
why I am having a conversation
who this very familiar person is

Today, I found myself staring at my screen, having no idea why I opened my laptop
oblivious to the fact that the bell rang several minutes ago
I did not remember the twenty-five kids waiting outside my classroom
I didn’t have keys for that door anyway, I forgot to bring them to work.
I was hungry, because my lunch was still in my fridge at home,
and tired, because my body forgot to fall asleep the night before
and sad because, for the first time ever
I had forgotten to tell myself that I was happy.

My colleges think I need to have a drink.
My love thinks I should see a doctor.
My boss is worried that she might have overworked me.
I tell them I feel a bit under the weather.
Just a cold, probably.
And so went home “sick” today.

I am not sick
nor am I overworked
or depressed
or just tired
I don’t have dementia
there is no tumour in my brain.

Just letters.

Pages upon pages
written in electricity upon the white matter of my brain
until not a tiny speck of it is white no more
the words clog my dendrites
the voice of my five, and my ten, and my twenty-year-old selves
drown out all sound
makes me go
Huh?
Huh?
Huh?

I am not sick,
I am just filled up and overflowing
with letters never sent
to my father
to my mother
to my love
to my stupid, ungrateful changeling baby brother

Letters to the teacher who taught me to teach
to the freedom fighter who taught me to sing
to the neighbour who taught me to pass as normal
and the nutcase who taught me normal is no fun at all
to the scum that stole my innocence away
and the sick bastard that saved my life

I need a mailbox.

This is what I could muster.

It would be nice if my letters reached fathers not yet dead.
Or mothers not yet forced to choose the other child.
Lovers still brave enough to love
brothers
freedom fighters
scum
but the main thing is:

I need them out of my head.