The clocks were striking thirteen
It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen.
George Orwell
For some reason today has had a surreal feel to it. One where I have talked to so many people in the digital sphere that I don't know if I am slipping into an unreal life. I've noticed that if I am on the computer so long, I begin to see the world's veil thin around me.
It was never too thick in my humble opinion. When I was in my twenties, a friend said that if she looked into a mirror surface, she could see a man stand behind me. The man followed me every where. At the time I was creeped out. Today, I would ask for a description of the man and then I would talk to him while I am cleaning my house. I don't have the mind to hold such a conversation when I am writing. I'm pretty one-track when it comes to getting the black marks onto the page.
When I learned a little physics and realized that everything including sound, color, and physicality were just frequencies, I began to slip into the hidden slits and hollows of my life. It is why I can write fiction, I think.
If my eyes weren't closed, I could believe that I was dreaming. The clock in my head strikes thirteen. There were so many times that I should have slipped from this skin and gone to the next world. I think and possibly feel, that I haven't because I still have debts and obligations here.
The biggest debt is to my dog companion.
The next debt is to my late-husband. He wanted me to live. He wanted me to write. Sadly I have not written as much as I could or lived as much as I should.
At the last strike, I sip the wine and believe that one day my words will help someone else.