I get back to the car. I sit in my driver’s seat. I don’t feel the urge to do anything else. I just sit there, in silence. I am not looking at anything in particular but everything in general, and it is all weighing on me. The humour of the last few minutes has deserted me, and I don’t want to laugh. I want to cry. I want to beat the steering wheel. I want to scream. I just sit there and don’t look at anything in particular but everything in general.
The people walking along the street don’t mind me sitting in my car. I mind me sitting in my car. I should be doing things, building things, creating things, or even just working mindlessly in some job that does not matter to anyone. I should be doing anything but this. I am doing this, but I can’t move. Going anywhere just seems a waste, I can’t go home as I don’t feel at home there, I can’t go out as the idea of talking to people scares me. I could go a drive but where could I go? Anywhere. How do I get there? I would need petrol, and I don’t want to speak to anyone. I could get petrol a coffee and a packet of crisps all at once. Limiting how much I have to talk to people. I don’t want to eat, and I feel nauseous, it must have been that waiting room. Coffee then? I’ll be sick, don’t buy one. It’ll be waste, don’t waste money, what about the plastic waste, don’t waste money or time. I have all the time, and well, let us go somewhere. Where? Anywhere? How? I look at the car, and I could clean the car, it needs a clean. I’d have to go home and get the hoover. Don’t go home. I can’t go home. I’ve been sitting here for ten minutes now people will be wondering. I turn the engine on, and I put the radio on. I should really dust this car, that is a lot of dust. I can’t go home, don’t go home, stay here. Yes, I’ll listen to the radio for a minute. I want to explode, and I need to cry, I need to scream. I want to bash the steering wheel. I just sit there and don’t look at anything in particular but everything in general. It all wells up.
I stood on the precipice, as I had many times before. I dived in, and I bit the steering wheel.
Not a moment to be proud of it, but it brought a momentary release from the anguish. Why was I feeling anguish? Why do I not talk? I do sometimes try and talk, but it doesn’t come out correctly, or at least how I mean it to come out. I then spend nights, days, weeks analysing what I said. Is there a different form of English that I am not aware of? One that people use to explain their feelings, and everyone gets it, and life goes on? The more I use my English, the more I am worried that I do not communicate efficiently or correctly. I know the meaning of the words I am saying, I am saying what I believe to be a grammatically correct sentence, but people do not seem to understand it. Do I not convey enough emotion? If I spoke more emotionally, would people understand?
Maybe it is because I sometimes go off on tangents, I can’t help it, and I know I shouldn’t, but sometimes I need to say these thoughts. Sometimes I lose my own trail and start to go off in what seems to be a completely different direction, but for me, I am still heading in the same direction, I never veered off course. I was always on the same course, and you maybe just did not realise.
The radio is still talking to me.