From Our Breakfast Table

From Our Breakfast Table a column that Anya Rompas was (supposed to share) with her husband while the
both of them are enjoying having their hearty and long breakfast. Discussing all and every topic imaginable,
from the personal to the mundane, from the political to the magical, from the upsetting to the delightful.
It is on their breakfast table, together. With scrambled eggs, orange juice and coffee, she dissects
our fears and concerns, plans and fantasies... until it's time for lunch!

welcome home, starling

you are safe now

“How Does It Feel?"

“How Does It Feel?"

You asked.

Arms long and slender with scrawny fingers begin crawling on the cold floor towards my feet. I am crying my heart out. One minute the room is bright but the next it became so black I think I am going to fall. I have trouble breathing. Tears and snot drips down into my mouth. I try to remind myself of my daughter and husband. In the few seconds when there is light again, I attempt to find a doll, a note on the fridge, a book, a drawing, whatever I can fix my eyes on. But there is this mystifying comfort to be in the dark. It feels only right that I should just stay there and keep my eyes shut.

Think of the hottest day you have ever experienced in your life. Hot. Humid. The air sitting still. Imagine all of that trapped in your body. Your skin is just a suit. You walk around like a lost child. Tripping on toys, colliding with tables. Everything seems so far away. Everything seems to hatch some plot against you. You drink your water. But it fails to extinguish your unexplainable rage. People have no right, you say to yourself.

I hit the pillows. Throw them all over the place. I gather them back. I hit the bed with the bolster. I close my head with the duvet. I kick the duvet. I do the baby pose. I pray. I turn off the lights. I turn one of them back on. I cannot stay still. I turn around every few minutes. But I am not a baby. I have sinned. I am not worthy. I lie down. And the ceiling stares back at me disapprovingly. Help me, Mother Mary.

Help does not always come.

And you still ask. 

Stream of Unconsciousness

Stream of Unconsciousness