The silenced voice speaks again within the confines of my mind, I want to paint. That’s what I want to do. I want to paint this to-grey-day. I don’t want to do anything for you!
He comes over and looks at me. I can see he is worried.
He asks, Are you sure you’re alright?
I heave myself out of bed and walk to the kitchen. A Willy Wagtail darts after an insect. Someone told me the wagtail is a harbinger of doom, of death, of unmistakable misery. I don’t think so. I watch the fan of its tail unfold flirtatious as the rustling silk of a Japanese courtesan, dramatic as a flamenco dancer. I pull my dressing gown tight and clumsy around my body. Everything is painfully dark inside me. I don’t want to shower or get dressed. I don’t want to brush my hair. I put some music on. Cucurrucucu paloma, the lament I’m hungering after. A rosella, closely followed by another, flies across the seasonal purples of Autumn, the billowing Tibouchina, the wild asters. Like paint their bodies streak brilliant blue and red across my garden. Ay, ay, ay, ay, ay cantaba, the sound touches a sadness so deep within, I cannot claim it as mine, deeper than muscle memory, wider than gene imprint. I just want to submerge myself until I’m saturated with this no-start, no-finish unexplainable sorrow.
Softly the night wind singing
Tells me it’s bringing my love to me
With every breath it’s sending
Love never ending across the sea
My heart and I are trying
To keep from crying
But we are lonely
Fly little bird go winging
He’s standing in the doorway now, yelling, turn that fucking noise off! What do you think you are doing? I’m trying to read my newspaper! Turn it off!
I think I’m laughing. I swirl around and around. I see him but I am not here. I turn slowly, my feet no longer touch the ground. I am soft, I am feathered, I am flying. My wings make a whistling noise as they slice effortlessly through the air…