When people think of Sunday's, they think worship day, god's day. But I have a little different form of Sunday's. That's disposal day for me. I think of it as the weekly cleaning of past assurances. Assurances of what? Assurances of a step closer to peace. But hell, we can't kill all of our problems, but I kill the ones that can breathe. Happy Sunday. That's what I call it. Happy Sunday.
Last week I disposed of three problems, the week before it was two, and the week before that, only five. What a pity. This week I plan on close to seven. In which I think we are getting better. It's so calming to get rid of your problems. Knowing that you don't have to deal with them in the morning. Beautiful peace and quiet. But the only problem is the stick mess it leaves behind. And the smell that lingers. Nothing anyone can't get used to though. Ahh, peace and quiet. What I love about it is that the quiet is always there, always screaming. But daily noise blocks it's beautiful song. So pitiful. And when the silence is finally heard, it's nothing, silent, emotionless. But as you listen for reassurance, that the world is still alive, you can hear the scream of silence. Faint, but lingering in the air.
But the most depressing part of it all is no matter what I do, I can't get the talking to stop. They are angry, but loyal. The voices don't like the silence, they don't like the emptiness. That's why I sing. I sing little melodies that embrace the voices like a blanket. The blanket of reassurance, the blanket of song. Eight. Eight problems are to be dealt with this Sunday. But alas it's only Friday. Two days. Forty-eight hours in change. A pity. The voices they don't like Friday's, nor Monday's, Tuesday's, Wednesday's or Thursday's, nor do they like Saturday's for that fact. Only happy Sunday. Pity, they only live for one day? Only for twenty-four hours in change? A pity indeed.
Nine. Nine problems have been dealt with. Now we wait to dispose of them. The way the silence shines threw the noise of life is beautiful really. You can hear it all the time, you just need to know where to look. It's sad that most people can't dispose of there problems like I do. But instead they bottle them up like its a vital instrument for life. Their pain stays with them, and the pain retreats into their hearts like a puppy running into its basket. Pitiful. Disgusting, keeping bad memories? I say kill them before they can fight back. That's why I dispose of my memories. I never get them back, but that's good. If you live in the past, the future seems so far, and the present is forgotten. Pitiful.
The sweet lady that lives next to me suffers from anxiety, I may go over and teach her my ways. She will be at peace when I do. A good deed a day is good for the mind, you know. Poor lady. She can't see the happiest part of life is the silence, she's always on that phone of hers. Everyday is the same. Six-thirty am, walk downstairs and she sits at her kitchen table. She dials her mum. 634-57910, everyday she talks. And talks. Then when she hangs up, she puts on the morning news. The poor lady, devoted to her children but can't ever see them. She lost custody because of her drinking problem. Scotch. Pitiful. She wears the same night dress every night. It's light pink, with a small tear in the right pocket. But she refused to fix it on the fact of her grandmother gave her that night dress. She lost her twelve years ago. Pitiful. She always talks, it's a thing she's good at. No silence. Only noise. She's been my neighbor for six years now. I should introduce myself. I don't even know her name.
