,
The squabbling, the name-calling, the pity parties and the
weeping were more than I was able to endure.
The war of words had been simmering for weeks on end. Percolating.
Brewing up a storm.
And I was stuck smack dab in the middle.
They all blamed me.
It was my fault. I wasn’t being fair. I favoured one over the other. Can’t you see my point of view? Give me a chance to say what I please. Why don’t you listen to what I have to
say? Freedom of speech! It’s my turn to tell my side of the story!
The constant digs and condemnations were enough to make me
go insane.
The racket and the noise had reached their peak. I was at my breaking point, precariously close
to the precipice. The flatmates from hell had
crossed the line and my gasket was about to blow. I
could have been mean and kicked the bickering bunch to the curb, but then
they’d be homeless in the midst of a pandemic.
Not to mention the additional stress of Voodoo dolls and payback Karma
lurking menacingly in the shadows.
Despite our differences and radically opposing opinions, the
roommates were family (albeit dysfunctional) and we had no other option but to
figure on out how to get along.
We were not on the same page.
So, what’s a writer to do?
Our radically opposing views of the world were cause for
consternation.
The voice, perspective, style and tone all crucial elements to penning a story.
The current Star of the show was raking in bucket-loads of
accolades, not to mention a whole lot of laughs. A spoonful of chuckles is all you need to banish the blues away. Laughter is the best medicine and Humour was on a roll.
I’ve been leaning on her lately for much needed emotional
support.
To help ease the anxiety and fear…
I understand my flatmates' frustration. They’ve been
ignored and shuttered inside. I’m guilty
of favouring one over the other. I
haven’t given the others an opportunity to validate what they have to say.
We had to make amends.
And, in case you were wondering about the Roomies, I must confess that only one name is scribbled on my lease. After all, I reside alone.
We had to make amends.
And, in case you were wondering about the Roomies, I must confess that only one name is scribbled on my lease. After all, I reside alone.
Contemplation was
in quite the uncharacteristic rage, furious that her voice had been quelled. Joined at the hip with best
pal Reflection, the two were an inspirational
team, pensive souls who spent countless hours ruminating the days away.
Melancholy was a
sorrowful sight. A nocturnal creature who used to make its
presence known in the dread of night, was a shell of her former self. The cascade of tears, a constant reminder of impending doom and gloom. The end is near and there is so much uncertainty and fear. Non-stop wailing about her inability to express.
Positivity was
clearly having a negative day. The
meltdown was worthy of an Oscar or two. Always one to
champion the virtues of hope and optimism, my side-kick of happy vibes was in a
funk, unable to deliver her message of sunnier days ahead. Dancing in the shadows, waiting for her chance to shine.
To make a long story short, the dilemma of choosing is a
challenging task.
We eventually haggled out the bare bones of a rudimentary truce.
The blank page of tomorrow has yet to be written.
Whose voice will prevail in next week’s blog post?
The negotiations continue…
Next post:
In one week or two! The w/o June 8th,
either on Tuesday, Wednesday or thereabouts.
Stay tuned!
Keep safe, catch up on your reading and be well,
my dear readers!
0 Response to " Squabbles with Voices on Week 11 of Quarantine"
Post a Comment