My Circle of Quiet

Sometimes I wish for my own circle of quiet. A place I'd call Solitude which bares no resemblance to the world I now occupy. Where "mommy" and "wife" are just fictional characters in the endless novels I can dedicate my life to. Only reading about the incessant squeals of children instead of experiencing them as they pierce my head creating the "boom, boom, boom" of a headache that no pain reliever can touch. Solitude would have no sinks and dirty dishes, no floors to be mopped, no toilets to scrub. Only a big, giant chair that makes me feel small and insignifiacant- with so many pillows I could spend my life choosing a new one every hour on which to rest my head. My circle of quiet would have only the sound of a faintly ticking clock to tell me there is still time. Time to read the next chapter and the next. The light would be dim except on my page-and when my eye lids get heavy- a nap is not a luxery or a sin- it is an atonement. Within my circle of quiet I am bound by no laws of land or nature. There are no restrictions. I may read what I want, when I want without thoughts of being looked at sideways or judged. Solitude is the place where I can be or not be. There is no question.