Another day, another sigh

I awoke this morning, it was still dark outside. The mere thought of actually getting up exhausted me profoundly. So I just lay there. Michael was still snoring away. I looked up at the ceiling,then the chair piled with dirty clothing, reminiscent to a monster lurking at our bedside, watching us. I could trace scattered socks and shoes all over the floor (Michael’s stuff, might I add)…everything just peering at me, waiting for me to clean it up, to fix and readjust. It was so terribly quiet (except for Michael of course) and an inexplicable sadness swept over me. I don’t want to complain, I don’t want to feel this horribly hollow feeling which seems to just envelop me more every day. But I don’t feel anything really… alright, maybe when I’m in the garden and the sunlight mingles with my orchids and roses, or when one of my students writes a good English essay, a tinge of happiness lights up in me. The joys in my life are so faint and fleeting, however. Perhaps it’s my age. I’m turning 50 soon. Maybe it’s my fear of that age. I wanted to do so much, be so much. What on earth has happened? God, I sound so whiny. If I had to mark this as an essay, I’d probably write ‘unoriginal, uncreative complaints…dull and boring!’ I just wish that I could live a life beyond…oh, I don’t know…beyond this. When I listen to Monteverdi and drink my wine in the evenings, I close my eyes and imagine that the dull, grey curtains around me would melt away, that the television set (which seems to have become the most talkative third member of the household) would be smashed to pieces and finally silenced. And Michael. He doesn’t understand really…he tries to be interested in my day, in my writing, in me. I know I bore him. His eyes wander when I talk to him, his replies are too quick and his own words are always louder than mine. He always tells me that if we would have had children I’d have something a little more ‘realistic’ to think and worry about. I don’t think I know him anymore. I don’t even want him close to me, the desire for him to hold me and love me has disappeared. The only romance that I enjoy right now is in my books. I feel rather sorry for myself. Mother always used to say: ‘Sylvia, you are special, very special.’ I don’t feel special. I feel so frightfully normal. I never thought I’d say this.I need Mom. I need someone. I’m alone and yet surrounded by so many people. Here I am now, sitting with Casper purring on my lap, sipping my fifth cup of coffee and smoking my dear cigarettes (I’ve stopped counting those!) and trying to read through a bunch of dreadfully written assignments. Sometimes I wonder if my students even listen to me. Or do they perhaps just look at me, distracted by my yellow teeth and graying hair? Wondering whether I am the saddest person they have ever met? I need to cook dinner soon. I wish I could start living a life full of wants. I taught Macbeth today and Shakespeare is right when he states that life is “but a fleeting shadow”. Nothing more.