I whisper in my secret language

listen

do you know this feeling? when you're doing everything right. but everything right somehow feels wrong?

like making a bed, or sealing an envelope, or signing a check is hiding something sinister. a bond. the bill of sale for my life. as if changing my tires, and making meals for work, and ironing a shirt were the bold, black letters of my name, agreeing to relinquish my freedom.  

it's silly. I know. after all, it's just a feeling.

a feeling. a sensation. that whispers to me in the moments between the close of my eyes and the onset of sleep. a whisper that I hear in the quiet moments of the day. the inexplicably still moments, where not even a bird chirps. I hear it then. 

and I shake my head. I furrow my brow. say, "let me be". after all does God not say hard work is glory? does God not say to be humble? 

and then there are the musts. I must eat, I must pay expenses, I must keep a car, keep a house, keep a pet, keep a plant. I must have clothes to wear, and lotions and shoes. I must. and if I must, then I must work. work, work, work. if I am not a worker. what can I be? I can't be anything but a sore backed, crooked, silent worker in this world. I am not allowed to be anything else. 

am I?

i am not a wanderer. or a solitary. supposed to dig into some underground place and simply create.

am I?

I don't think I am.

I didn't think I was. 

until I woke up in the middle of the night to write poetry.

until I stood in the bright square the mid day sun cast on my floor and I played my violin until there was no more sun. 

until I sat here, typing. clicking the keys to help relieve some of the pent up pain. 

I rush here to whisper in my secret language. so quiet. anonymous. it's safe. because no one hears. that way I can still tie my apron round my waist.

I didn't think I was anything else.

I don't think I am anything else. 

am I?

- from Nie