A Quiet House


The house is scary and quiet at night. There are no dogs barking. No mindless chatter in the background as someone chats on the computer. There is not a sense of movement, a fullness that would suggest someone other than me is at home tonight. 

I use to love the night and being by myself in the quiet. But being unwell has drained me of those concepts. I am alone all day trying to keep myself busy that it is often difficult at night. Tonight there were a couple of my favorite shows on TV so I watched those but then they ended. And now it appears they might be killing off two of my favorite characters and not just one. That makes me sadder then it probably should.

So, now I am just writing, dreading when it comes time to sleep because I haven’t been sleeping well. And then taking extra sleeping pills means more time in the morning where I am groggy and can’t do things when I want to or need to in the day. I’m thinking of going back downtown tomorrow, I’ve got a couple of errands that need doing. But I’m okay trying to work on another Copywriting module too and saving the errands until next Tuesday. 

This weekend I am visiting a friend not to far away at her house. And if I don’t do that module, I will finish it. I’m also trying to give my room and my washroom a thorough cleaning. I can’t do it all at once but I’ve sorted all my clothes and got rid of the too small or what I never wear. And I have to deal with the top shelf in my closet, with the boxes from appliances that don’t have warranties anymore and the scrap books and photo books all scrambled. There’s boots to put away and clean, dressers and shelves to sort, paperback books to recycle, shoes to sort, bags to sort, vacuuming, and dusting. That is what happens when you cram most of 30 years into a room. I can only imagine the elderly people who must cram 90 years into a room but perhaps then you think you don’t need to take anything with you when you go. I will leave the washroom for later I think. 

For, now, I’ll read for awhile. 

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