Ever since I started yet another new journal, precisely one month ago, I am finding myself increasingly happier with my works of prose. Here is one that was just written that I would like to share with you.
A Reluctant Guest
Today is truly the first day in which I feel uncomfortable living in someone else's house. It was only a minuscule occurrence that happened yesterday but it seems to have changed the atmosphere nonetheless. The tea kettle had started whistling, and I couldn't help but think to myself how humorous and almost story-like it was that the whistling got louder just as the argument upstairs had. I was tired, and the thought of tending to the kettle hadn't even crossed my mind in the slightest, and as a result I was reprimanded -- and perhaps appropriately-- as though I was one of the woman's insolent children. While this scenario provides more than enough ammunition to write the story of my dreams, the reality of the incident hits me sore, in such a sensitive spot, that I cannot possible bring myself to put pen to paper and turn it fiction.
Since I had started residing here, a full two months ago, I had often stated that being in a situation such as this is a most meticulous balancing act. One must know when to act as a guest and when to play the part of a significant contributor. One must know when to be invisible and when to remain in plain sight. One must decide when to take action and when to simply butt out. I admit that I took a lousy misstep that threw off my balance and now I must bear the consequences of this disease until the weight of the atmosphere permanently settles.