The chores keep me from thinking now when I want to despair deliberately - when I want to sit and churn this despair. The chores subdue my despair, and my despair leaves me feeling unaccounted for. Please come back, dear despair, I abhor such interruptions.

Can't you find me in the night? Why is it that you came with the twilight? I want to sit with you, and not talk to anyone at all. I want to switch off my computer, my telephone, my air conditioner, the air conditioner of the neighbor, and the air conditioner of their neighbor. I want to eliminate every sound that grows louder the moment I want to quieten up to sit face to face with my despair fully. Can't you just wait patiently while I carry out these chores?

You came in the evening and just before it was sufficiently dark and we really began to talk, I remembered that I have food to prepare. Cleaning up can wait, everything else can wait, but food had to be made. It is the ultimate escape, the ultimate 'not today'. It is keeping me from the revelations and tidings that you bring.

Sometimes, I feel how many women might have felt - that chores are coming in the way of their artistic brilliance.

Sometimes, I also know that these chores are the little things coming between the way of many humans and insanity.

Sometimes, I want to taste that insanity, and these chores come in the way. Food. Sustenance. Food, prepared with an iota of love. After all, to welcome you well and to love you fully, I have to love myself.

Aesthetic Blasphemy | A hand reaching out for the darkness
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