Agreeing With Grandma. By CpSingleton © 2016
It started with the hissing.
A high-pitched toilet cistern-filling hiss in his ears. It used to crumple his thoughts. It would crush them like dry leaves until it was difficult to create new ones.
He would find himself curled, foetal, in bed for days, unable to cope with the dreary, grey world that span uselessly around him.
Over time, and a remapping of his mindset, he became used to the noise. In some ways it was comforting.
It was like his head was saying: “You’re not dead yet, old boy, so just allow the noise to wash over you.”
He did just that. He let it wash right on over.
It was the visits from his grandmother offering advice on his bed making skills that bothered him most. She was far more abrupt than he recalled her to be when in skin. Almost…
View original post 112 more words