Real Life

Real life, real life, real life! How many times do we have to wake up and be resigned to it! How grand is what goes unseen, what is never known, the private trundlings around undertaken by us all in solitude, the long spaces of silence, the little turnings-round to breathe some incidental stutter of comment and then rise and depart to go in some other room and live out your life forever there, unwatched, uncommanded, in life which is a kind of freedom in itself.
Maybe they talk over trivia and happiness inside, mouths full of food, slurping, spending all night in front of TV, such an upright, healthy, respectable thing for the old to do. Interrupt each other with melodious, mumbling gossips, interrupted too by the resoundant electronic voice of the television, eternally private and unseen in the halts and honesties of real life, sighing for themselves.
Softness, desertion, the horrible reality of an empty room.