Cold chips
Life could become one long dim scramble just to get the things needed to keep alive. And the confusing point is this: All useful things have a price, and are bought only with money, as that is the way the world is run. You know without having to reason about it the price of a bale of cotton, or a quart of molasses. But no value has been put on human life; it is given to us free and taken without being paid for. What is it worth? If you look around, at times the value may seem to be little or nothing at all. Often after you have sweated and tried and things are not better for you, there comes a feeling deep down in the soul that you are not worth much.
-- "The Ballad of the Sad Cafe", Carson McCullers.
The scenery beyond the window pane is washed-out and colourless; one has the impression of having woken up to the night and missed the day. Yesterday, the sun made a string of little golden dots on the door of my wardrobe, painting careless, teasing streaks on the cold metal of my non-singing windchime. The mess on my floor has changed shape and colour numerous times throughout the day as progress is being made, morsel by morsel. I dare not hope but it feels that the end is a little more in sight.
Posted by sniffles at July 28, 2002 10:32 AM