Questa è Enida

I know I should just go to bed.

Things went perfectly well with the monchies tonight. Fed them the homemade non-piccante Green Curry Beef dinner earlier than usual. Got them home from the playground right in time for the 15 minutes get-ready-for-bed rituals. Had the ‘Once Upon A Time There Was A…’ bedtime story told by 2045. They were cosily tucked in and in Lulla Land by 2100, and voila! The day was done. Yes, Sunday is an ON day for the wicked moms. Supposedly.

But I went downstairs instead. Made myself some Earl Grey and grabbed a sooshka instead. I was supposed to pay my debt to Elizabeth Gilbert of her Eat Pray Love – 3 pages installment per night tonight, like every night. But I paid 15 instead. (There is this rule I have been governing myself with. For almost 20 years now. The rule says: I shall read at least 3 pages of anything per day, if not night. Thus those books or magazines you see in almost all my WC’s in my house, car-door or seat pockets, night tables in all rooms, on one corner on all benches, in the closets, kitchen and all under-sink cabinets.)

I promised myself to write The Silent Reader a reply email which I started 3 nights ago but stopped. I re-started it tonight. But I re-stopped instead. I wrote so long, felt so much… that in the end I found myself back in the middle of the beginning of what I had written so long and felt so much about. Words, like they have been the past weeks, seemed to turn to tears and tears turned to blood when I wrote them. I was bleeding when I thought I was merely weeping.

I don’t know now if I am telling you the truth by lying. Or if I am awake by sleeping. I only know that I am dying by living. Or maybe the other way around, instead. So angels, I am unwriting this right before your eyes. Or are they mine instead?

I should have just gone to bed. Or eaten the sooshka, prayed for a goodnight sleep and loved Enida after that 15 pages of Eat Pray Love. Instead…