Mumble

So when you levitate to superstardom, drop me a line. Drop me a very long line from so, so high up. I promise to fling back something at you as well. Like a postcard with my drawings and ridiculous Haiku.
If you can cut through zombie talk, zombie smiles and zombie casual touch, then surely we'll manage.
There's this leather couch at work. It's yellow and half eaten by the dogs (there are two). The stuffing's out and flaps of leather stick out helplessly. I love sitting on it and I want to tear the stray flaps. And chew on them maybe - but that would be a little drastic so early into this job.
There's a tubelight which is always left on in office. Even during the day. I hate it. I hate tube lights. I hate waste of electricity.
Today there's an eclipse. I wish I could see it, but I don't have the necessary eye protection.
Yesterday I went to a restaurant. As always I had to fill out the feedback form. I wrote my name, my husband's name - or rather what I always imagine it to be - and what I do. I wrote another profession (junior copywriter, would you believe?) and it was nice. It was right.

I am listening to you, but I’m not really listening. I am there, but not really. Sorry. I wish I could be. I wish I could really mean what I am saying, because damn it, I say good things. I say the right things. But I don’t feel it anymore. I don’t feel anything anymore. I feel pain and humiliation and rejection. But I don’t feel acceptance and love and warmth. I support you uncompromisingly. Seemingly uncompromisingly. But I don’t invest any real emotions into my support. I’m not real. I’m so, so far from reality.
I wish I were making sense. Later perhaps.