Mornings born on a bowl of confidence, or grain-flavored pellets that stick to the back of my conscience. The day will end with a decision, a jury and court weighing the outcome.
Easily influenced by the surroundings, silk and cotton drapes, one for the table and the other for obstructing neighbor’s view. “Why is he not married? Is he even religious?”
It’s funny how their opinion wavers on a wafer in a building made of the same materials as this kitchen. Did I leave the stove on on accident or intentionally to burn in Hell?
I never thought it was true that we poke fun at the things we fear most. I haven’t poked or prodded in my lifetime, but my neighbors sure do. “No, Mrs. Smith, I embrace this loneliness.”
It’s almost as if they think I run a ***** house, or have the most questionable of sexualities. I am as plain and inconclusive as the toast I burnt – dry and unbuttered; it goes down unconvincingly.
I will sit in this chair, hiding from the houses, eating my dry meals in the morning, under the beaming lights, possibly reviewing this day in tomorrow’s morning.