The guitarist on Oxford Street makes me sad. He plays by a dark wall notes like insects on a river. The christmas lights are already up. Switched off they are more beautiful like gathering moons. 

I didn’t speak a word in class. We had read Dorian Grey, I only read half. The exhaustive toil of home only made me read half. Not real home- the compound for the blind embossed with mental illnesses unbound that I reside in. I thought of things the others said and thought I maybe understand for once. 

I had cried in an empty purple common room. No one will help me get a woman with dementia moved and now they move the loudest woman next door in what was a guest flat. I am ill from a decade of no sleep because of mentally ill people. Soon I’ll join them. This is how I spend my last years before blindness. 


2 thoughts on “

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s