Being a woman and a wife.

So it is this that has made me write again. This rancid amalgam of guilt, hurt and pride that stinks within a day of its concoction. It is funny how I could not write when I was happy, as if my happiness consisted of grains too small to be held or seen or defined. As if they slipped through the fingers of my words, fell through the gaps in my writing.

And in any case, what is there about happiness that has not already been written, about loving and being loved, about laughter. But our sorrows are unique. Or at least they make us think that they are unique, that no one could possibly have gone through our particular brand of pain, which is so egotistical, is it not? Because how many first causes are there? However complex our web of individualism may be, there are only three first causes- Birth, Death and Marriage, like the Registrar’s office claims.

I know this will be over sometime. But in the meanwhile, let me indulge my isolation with tears, which seem to be the only recourse to the snivelling, weak-minded coward I have become. Allow me the luxury of the desire to want to be somewhere else, someone else, with a purpose, a plan, a will, a strength, a sense of humour which I seem to have lost along the way, the long, long way, of being a woman and a wife.