||[Oct. 10th, 2006|10:54 am]
|||||the turning of pages, the expansion of thought||]|
Something has happened to this world. I find it much colder than when I was first alive.
My typist had been asking about the pigeon who used to find me wherever I was. My white pigeon whom I have difficulty speaking of since my last interview about her. I snapped at her though I instantly regretted it and said something that was rather cruel. Not only cruel but crude enough that I can not type it upon this page. She paused and, to my horror, her eyes started to water. In a moment she had locked herself up in her room and refused to come out or speak to me. She had left the television on and, I shudder to write it, I turned to the news. My poor beautiful country, my America, was ran over with men who had a rather sick interest in children. It saddened me but I had realize this before when I had looked out the window and found that the streets are unbearably empty. Deserted even.
I have also noticed this in my typist's behavior. She seems distracted, even paranoid when we walk together on our own. I sense there is a deep fear of strangers and an even deeper, if not a detest, for foreigners. I find it distressing but what's even more distressing is that there seems that there is nothing I can do to change that. This fear, this paranoia, this madness has become such a fact of life that people have come to accept it as everyday normality. A gentleman once asked us for directions one morning and my typist grabbed my hand and ran. As we ducked around a store corner she begged me to be silent until he past. We lost him but I will never forget the look in her eyes. Like that of a small bird being chased by some hawk.
It has been a couple of days since the incident and I've noticed this coldness being directed toward me from my typing companion. She looks at me and than looks down and refuses to be in the same room. If she talks to others she speaks in Spanish or Latin and I do speak Latin. She said, "I'm worried about him. About what he's going to do." and I equally worry what this "do" she thinks of is. Probably another perversion. In some ways I wish I could relax her or calm her but I do not know how to get that task accomplished. I hardly lived with anyone, save for my family, that I've been out of contact of human nature. I never thought much about the matters of the human heart and I still don't but it's difficult to watch the world suffer like it does. Especially since one of those inhabitants dictates everything that I say.
I wish I could help her, and the world, heal but I do not know how.