bored

what is a note? when one scribbles, and just scribbles nonsense things, here and there, words, sentences, paragraphs that never cease to end. one can write things of a maiden, of how solemn she is, (though young) of how the world corrupted her innocence, her ability to be easily amused. there is her husband, stalwart, at times, funny, yet mostly composed of things she never wished to be closed to, nor cling to. what can a maiden, young as her age, with her own kindred, her own family who expect her to be the best wife she could be, the best mother she can be, do to simply get by? (she has two sons, and how lovely they are). they, these people, the world outside her, have been nothing but clueless. she had lost them a long while now, just as she had lost a grip of her real self. how she wishes she could disappear. the rattling of plates, the mundane art of waking up in the morning, the chores she is forced to attend- all of it- suddenly overwhelms her. she wishes to disappear, far, far away. she will abandon this- her kids, her husband, her life, a thing that used to matter, now a mere illusion of a past she had loved. "one day, just one day," she thought, "i shall free myself." at one morning, when her husband gone, departed to work, she will clean immaculately, scrub what has not been scrubbed, spot even the tiniest speck of dust; to tidy everything up, organizing each and every thing there is- the cupboards, the fridge, the picture frames, the bathroom- all in its prime, museum-like state. she will pack her clothes. she will leave a note, simply saying, "pardon me, for i am unhappy here." she will walk out the door, carefully not laying a glance to the dear crib, nor trying to hear her poor babies yelps, and cries. will guilt be on her then? perhaps yes, perhaps not, when everything turned into a stone, a cold shelter, an empty, desolated musk of solitude. a train she will embark. a trip to canada. perhaps she will be some one then, a clerk in a library will do. this is her idea of life, of happiness.