There are conversations that disappear in this household. They start and then the speaker vanishes behind walls and beneath weightier words. There are too many loud voices in this house and the most willing to please is the last to be heard.
Conversations start off and…
Before they can be finished or without answer, they trail into silence and flit amongst the things that will forever remain unsaid. I’m speaking, of course, about conversations with my parents.
I don’t think they do it on purpose, but I try to tell them things and they forget to listen or they become too interested in this box with sounds and coloured pictures. It would be nice to be noticed or paid attention to once in a while. That’s all I’m saying.
We have lots of repeated conversations whereby I repeat things that I’ve already said… but for some reason or another they have forgotten or failed to listen in the first place. We have conversations whereby I say something and instead of listening they’re already heading into the conservatory to smoke because that is far more important. After all, they haven’t had a smoke all day and what’s a conversation with your daughter compared to that?
Sounds terribly bitter, doesn’t it? I can’t lie, though. I’m a terrible liar.
Then there are discussions that fall on distracted ears. Television rules supreme, sucking senses into its vile screen. These are things I cannot stand.
Far worse are conversations where they cannot comprehend my thoughts and emotions. Those talks where I should behave and think and feel exactly how they would, because I am their flesh and blood and not a person of my own. These conversations where tact crawls into a hole and dies, waiting to be dragged back to life when their concrete controls echo away.
I had one of these ‘conversations’ recently. It ended with the words ‘it’s too late to be finding fault in [blank] now’. Is it really too late?
Because I was under the impression that it’s never too late to change things if you want them to…
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