When you tell the truth and no one believes you. Not about the future, about the past, and things that happen when it’s just you and one other person, who denies everything. And ensures the disbelief of poor misguided little you in advance. “You tell yourself these stories…” …about the gas lamp. About the yellow wall-paper. About a room of one’s own. As Doctor Martin walks / from breakfast to madness. Some humans are more equal than others, apparently. More than machinery, we need humanity. More than cleverness, we need kindness and gentleness. Without these qualities, life will be violent, and all will be lost. …I’ll never be Jack Kerouac, nor the Bard. I want to be something else. But I can’t get no relief, rest to heal, an understanding ear, a hot bath in the middle of the night when painsomnia is high. I’m too tired to keep fighting to be heard, and I don’t see any future for me but deaf ears and closed minds and filled-up schedules. I’m tired. I’m so tired. I ache in my soul. If no one will listen no matter how I say it then what’s the point of making the effort to even speak? Tillie Olsen’s ‘Silences.’