“To write books you need not only comfort and solitude—and solitude is never easy to attain in a working-class home—you also need peace of mind. You can’t settle in to anything, you can’t command the spirit of hope in which anything has got to be created, with that dull evil cloud of unemployment hanging over […]
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On Melancholy Hill

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“To write books you need not only comfort and solitude—and solitude is never easy to attain in a working-class home—you also need peace of mind. You can’t settle in to anything, you can’t command the spirit of hope in which anything has got to be created, with that dull evil cloud of unemployment hanging over you.”

― George Orwell, The Road to Wigan Pier

By now I had become one with my sheets, 1 day, 2 hours, 35 min straight in bed. I was lurking around at home after work for the past week as well, but this weekend, I had completely nothing up my sleeves and I had decided to take some rest, maybe write a little, might as well come back to my reading.

This was the third time in less than an hour where I had woken up startled to the sound of my parents arguing, over silly stuff, very unimportant, like how many lemons should they use for the soup, or how to redecorate the living room. I looked up the ceiling and closed my eyes shut again, this was starting to get on my nerves. You see when two people are stressed or uneasy, they start to pick up fights out of the most basic things, all that anguish they carry start to churn in their guts, rise in their throats and explodes in all the wrong places, at the dinner table, at post work meetings, even in marital beds.

My parents, two middle class working people, both lost their jobs during economic recessions, being separated within three decades from each other. My mom chose to be a housewife, while dad was out all day when we were young, I grew up to see my dad just for about one hour before I got to bed, most of that time would be silently sitting near him while he had his supper. As I had grown, I couldn’t but notice how tense things were between them two, they both were so different from each other, and so far away, as far as both poles went. However, just like in politics, you’d start noticing similar patterns in behavior between the two of them, in spite of their disparities and differences.

I always cheered for mom, I just never understood why for most of the time I had my judgment even before I knew my father’s case. It was a matter of trust, I trusted that mom would always be right, and was capable of doing the right thing. It’s not that I did not love dad, I did, and I still do, it’s just about the compromise I’ve been put through all my life. It’s easy to compromise based on logic, that’s what we all did when mom rests her case, the hard thing always would be to compromise against all logic and based on affection. That’s why my dad usually won, and throughout the years, mom lost herself bit by bit, because that’s how you devour a whale, one piece at a time.

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