Underneath

I might stay in my pyjamas all day today.
I might do nothing.

It’s grey and incomplete outside. I am on my own and it’s Easter Monday.

My sister was born on Easter Monday.
But she's a long way away.

I’m alone with my pain and my apathy. My shoulder hurts every morning. 

Lying still is the worst thing for it. 

The pain is hard to remember when it stops but when it wakes me up it consumes me.

My house is like a bomb site. 

Every surface is covered with the detritus of my life. 

The part of me that wants to control and organise seems to be away. 

Has it gone on holiday like everyone else? 

Is this an essential resting or a criminal waste of the time I so loudly complain I do not have enough of.

I’m reading at the moment. It makes me think in literary language. 

I’m reading ‘Incredibly Loud, Extremely Close’ or is it ‘Extremely Close, Incredibly Loud’? 

I can never remember.

It is the kind of story that meets me where I am.

I’ll get better.

I always do.

Because I have people who love me.