The Matter Of Things

“Oh my goodness. What is wrong with you? Why are you all like that?”

“Oh I don’t know!”

“You don’t?”

“I do!”

“I don’t understand. Please tell me what is all the matter with you.”

“But that’s just it. I don’t understand what all is the matter with me.”

“Try to tell me. I care about you. Oh my goodness, what is wrong?”

“I wish I could sing!” I sob. “I wish I could sing better than any one in the whole world and everyone wouldn’t have to hear the words just hear how I was singing!”

“Why? What you do – it is noteworthy. Is this what is the matter?”

“Oh no. That’s not it. Because I cannot sing.” I begin to shake. “I wish I could draw anything in the whole world! I wish that I drew what people couldn’t see and when people looked at it they would know even if they had never laid eyes on it before!”

“But you don’t draw – you said so yourself.”

“Nor do I sing!”

“Is that all that is wrong?”

“No!”

“What is, then? My! What is the matter?”

“Everything!” I am sobbing and shaking uncontrollably. “I wish I could write! Oh how I wish I could write like people can sing and how people can draw!”

“Oh my, I’m afraid I do not understand you.”

“No one ever does! Oh why couldn’t I just sing? People feel that. Why couldn’t I just draw? People see that.”

“Earlier you said you wished you could write. Is that what is the matter?”

“Oh my, I have already written it down!”

“You what? You wrote it down? What did you write down?”

I couldn’t say anything. I kept sobbing and shaking. I could look no where except for down.

“Oh my, please tell me what is the matter!”

“I have! I already have!”

“I didn’t hear you.”

I am sobbing.

“I didn’t see anything.”

I am shaking.

“Oh my goodness! What is wrong with you? Why are you like this?”