Tube Lights

For better or for worse, we all die. That is a fact. We are usually remembered by a maximum of two generations after us. Unless we do something significant, write or create or somehow change the course of things in a memorable way, leaving something behind. 

Our peers remember us according to how we have affected them, negatively and positively. For a person who spends a lot of time alone, and a lot of time inside my head, this is bad news. 

I don't know how I come across to others, though I have my suspicions. Fizzah has no choice at this point except to tolerate me... and what choice do I have but to tolerate her? My husband says he's happy but is often walking on eggshells around me, afraid of my mercurial temper. What sort of happiness is that? But it must be real, because he is grounded in reality. He accepts things for what they are - a remarkable trait. A difficult trait. A confounding trait. Most people (I mean me) think often of how they want things to be. 

I want my white walls and shabby tube-light house to have soft yellow lights, easier on the eyes, much comfier to hide in. I want a comfortableness that doesn't exist in our house. A soft chair, a single sofa perhaps, to sink into. A sofa that doubles as an ottoman or a rocking chair or something equally terrific. And I want a library at home. I won't go on anymore about what I want. What a dull paragraph - full of neediness.