I go to the library in the mornings. The kids that show up play games and we read a book or two. I think it’s more or less just something to do for us both. When I ask around my village, I’m told that there is a new committee formed that can help with the library, maybe any other projects with me. Ha, it’s funny that I’m the one asking for help, and if you don’t see the irony then you need to put more thought into what I just wrote. Alas, when I ask to meet with this committee it’s always ‘yes we will’ and then we don’t.
The clinic that was supposed to house a nurse for my village by the New Year is still empty, and looks even more forsaken now that the grass and weeds have swallowed the entire area. I’ve tried to contact the ones that promised the nurse, my calls go unanswered, there are no responses to my emails, and pigeon carriers probably wouldn’t produce any more or an outcome. So the waiting game I will play. I’ll wait in the library while the grass grows, with my notion that patience is a virtue.
It’s raining a great deal lately, with angry winds that slam open doors the way I want to some days. I envy the wind that can show anger and frustration the way I wish I could sometimes, but know that it would be fruitless. Who would understand? How will that help? I possess absolutely no control, it alludes me the same way that understanding has. Expectations are meaningless, so I give them away. Accomplishment is a word I learned at some point in life, but I don’t know what it means anymore so I can’t teach it. An 8 year old will parrot English in the form of “it looks sexy” and I can’t laugh at it today, maybe tomorrow.
Right now, for this time in a day, I’m stuck in a moment where no matter how much you sweep, dirt and body parts of insects will remain on the floor. Books will never be cracked unless they are being cleaned or happen to fall over. Mosquitoes will not be stopped by any means of repellant, sweat always follows the shower, and the glass is almost bone dry. Today is a day I feel unwanted, uninvited, disrespected, and simply disliked. But I know this feeling won’t last, it never does, and tomorrow may bring a better day. My concern is that I can’t tell if by enduring this and writing about it, am I being a strong or weak person, am I being self-less or selfish? Am I complaining or simply sharing? I apologize if it seems like the first because it’s not meant to be complaint or a request for sympathy, just an account of the moment.
The library is empty, the air is calm, and when there is nothing else, thoughts and mosquitoes are dependable.
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