The bright light of the computer screen
Buzzing in the darkness
I pour my soul into the keys
Making my words touch you gently
The way my fingers can't
Stroking, caressing, loving
Longing to touch you
In a way that renders words speechless
Typing out my missing you
With the tip-tap of every key
Transforming my feelings into bites and bits
And seeing them come out on your side
Still intact, unchanged
My love for you, in a little text box
maandag 26 juli 2010
zaterdag 24 juli 2010
A pensioner's life (doodle)
Hi, this is just a doodle I made during Creative Writing...
A pensioner's life is like the last stop of a bus. At a service flat. You definitely do not want to see the real last stop of the bus - so you put up with the deaf, dementing, pee-smelling wrinkled things called human beings that are living all around you. Mind you, the dementing can come in quite handy at times - I haven't had to repay loaned money in two years.
Other than that, it gets pretty boring. Most people around here aren't sane enough to remember your name longer than one day, which kind of rules out friendship - if you want to be friends with an adult still in diapers anyway. The TV always shows the same winter resort somewhere in Switzerland (I hope whoever ever had that idea breaks a leg - no wait, make it two. And an arm.) and the nurses turn out to be not so nice when you've tried to make them trip over your cane twice. Anything for a little entertainment.
And then there are the dreaded family visits. The entire week is a blur of boredom, but you just know when Sunday morning has arrived. Suddenly the drool disapears, the diapers are neatly tucked in and (some) TV's are switched off. Cars appear in the parking lot that are not the staff's - or the funeral company's, for that matter.
And that's when the TALK starts. Yes, the T-A-L-K. Nobody ever knows what to say. And what should you say, when you see your old father surrounded by people who are one foot in the grave already anyway, and nurses who treat him like he's already got a foot and a half in? And what should you say when as a father, you see your son sitting on the bed you just wet the night before (by accident!), divorced, with a badly paid job and a small apartment his only child has walked out of?
Nothing.
A pensioner's life is like the last stop of a bus. At a service flat. You definitely do not want to see the real last stop of the bus - so you put up with the deaf, dementing, pee-smelling wrinkled things called human beings that are living all around you. Mind you, the dementing can come in quite handy at times - I haven't had to repay loaned money in two years.
Other than that, it gets pretty boring. Most people around here aren't sane enough to remember your name longer than one day, which kind of rules out friendship - if you want to be friends with an adult still in diapers anyway. The TV always shows the same winter resort somewhere in Switzerland (I hope whoever ever had that idea breaks a leg - no wait, make it two. And an arm.) and the nurses turn out to be not so nice when you've tried to make them trip over your cane twice. Anything for a little entertainment.
And then there are the dreaded family visits. The entire week is a blur of boredom, but you just know when Sunday morning has arrived. Suddenly the drool disapears, the diapers are neatly tucked in and (some) TV's are switched off. Cars appear in the parking lot that are not the staff's - or the funeral company's, for that matter.
And that's when the TALK starts. Yes, the T-A-L-K. Nobody ever knows what to say. And what should you say, when you see your old father surrounded by people who are one foot in the grave already anyway, and nurses who treat him like he's already got a foot and a half in? And what should you say when as a father, you see your son sitting on the bed you just wet the night before (by accident!), divorced, with a badly paid job and a small apartment his only child has walked out of?
Nothing.
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