Not screaming, getting drunk, crying, or despairing.

But I can’t write.

I will smile, breathe, and go slowly.

The breadth, width, and availability of the world. As if a radio station was playing silently next to the one she was listening to now. All she needed was to turn a knob.

… another wasted dream…

I look at the world from the points on my computer screen. It’s a big world, with enormous problems, great victories, long miles, and numberless destinies. I can’t accommodate them all in my little mind, but I don’t give up trying.

I can’t imagine the lives of Afghans, trampled by local and global violence. I can’t empathize with the Pakistani scientist, working with nuclear energy. I cannot count the banknotes of a Zimbabwean mother, buying milk for her children.

I prefer to marvel at the skill and fine work of Swedish interior designers, the melodic triumph of Finnish rockers, and the compassion of American aid workers. I want to look at the big world and think ‘it is good’.

It is easy to despair, looking at the big world. A friend said today that Bulgaria is a small country with small problems, easy to solve. I don’t agree. I don’t think numbers and territory determine significance, it is the vision that counts. The vision of improving the self, the world, and all the stages between the inside and the outside. As far as the horizon.

Right now, I have a very small dream. It’s a room with a view, taken from the portfolio of a fashionable Californian designer. Two reclining chairs, facing the window, a fireplace between them, and plants on both sides. I just loved it, was touched by the perfectly achievable combination. Okay, maybe deceptively achievable.

An open fire, albeit not wood-fueled. Soft background music. Damn, another chair…

So…

Redemption – The Fullness of Time:IV: Transcendence

Worried about a future of centenarians with few children and even fewer grandchildren, the business is urging employees to go back home earlier, and spend time with their family.

‘Sayonara Overwork’ sounds promising.

The whole Bloomberg article here.

I remember the intense happiness of being alone in the apartment. The kids asleep or off to school, and it’s just me (that was B.M. – before Misha). I remember the first time I felt it. I was in my blue kitchen, standing by the kitchen sink, but probably not washing the dishes. Or even if I did wash the dishes, I was still happy. I got everything I need… I was tranquil and silent, I had found my place in the world. I was free.

Changes have crept in since I last reveled in solitude. I have done a lot to keep my mind off thinking deep, serious thoughts. I am not very good at thinking, most of the time. At other times I get so formidably good, that I wish I stopped thinking altogether. The world is my dominion, I can do whatever I wish for, I am invincible. I know, I know – delusional grandeur disorder. Also known as loneliness.

I have slept alone on my low bed for such a long time, I don’t know if I could bear having another adult there. (Kids are different, they love to cuddle with me in the mornings, or after a nightmare.) I sleep on the left side of the bed, close to the night lamp. I tell myself I should sleep in the middle, to avoid this not so subtle gap on my right, but I keep on the left nevertheless. I always sleep facing the window though, my back to the empty half of the bed. How could I see the moon, and sometimes even the stars, if I didn’t?

Listening to my own silent voice, is sometimes frightening, often inspiring. I can tell myself things no one else can, and I modify the messages according to a random pattern.  Rarely do I utter a word out loud, I know the final stage of mad loners is when they start talking to themselves. The cat is a good escape in this respect… Maybe that’s why mad loners have many cats, so that they have someone to talk to, and still preserve their sanity.

Even when the earth trembles, silence is best.

I can’t find my keys to the gas tank (and yes, both the reserve key and the original were on the same key ring). My brother had a second daughter. My former babysitter came to visit last night and told me she had problems with black magic.

I almost laughed at the things she said were happening to her, and the methods for telling whether you have been cursed or not. She mentioned that prayer and holy water were ways to protect yourself and the house. I’ve always thought that God’s love and care were enough, but nothing seems to work in my life any more.

I’ve had so much pain in the last two years that I think I am beyond despair and faithlessness. I have fought bravely, and persevered, and prayed and hoped. Now I face incredible challenges and I don’t think I deserve this. I have sinned, have asked forgiveness, have been screwed, again, and again, and again.

Whatever happens, I will go on. I will go on, whatever happens. For as long as it takes.

My son knows, he has always known, even before he was born. He remembers, he empathizes. Sometimes more than I would like him to, as he soaks in my sorrow.

I don’t have a name. I gave up my own many years ago, when I got married. After the divorce, he let me keep his surname, which is permitted by law when the wife has become famous under this name. It is true that professionally I am known by this surname, but the reason I wanted to keep it, was the children. We are a family, and have a family name. I might even order a door tag with this name.

In fact, I am a part of something which is no longer my family, and I have no right to be called by this name. I am wearing it by mercy, I am at the receiving end of charity. I cannot go back to my maiden name, that was too long ago, and I lost that part of my identity even before marriage. Who was I in the first place?

I don’t have a name, not any more. I can’t change that for as long as I live, because even if I remarry (which I won’t), I can’t take another man’s name, not anymore. Many women add their husband’s name to their maiden name with a hyphen, and if they happen to divorce, they just drop the addendum. I cannot do it – because then I would be two steps away from myself.

I’ll be nameless until my dying day. On my tombstone they will carve this fake name of mine. Will there be a white stone with my true name on it?