Silent Melancholy

It is frosty today, a cold and melancholy Sunday. The rain beats softly on the window pane and without fuss. The morning could have been noon and the noon, another time on the same day. The evening will look like night and the night, like an evening gone black before it lost the light. In the season's stillness, my mood feels surreal.
I stay indoors.
The furthest I have ventured out is to the corner shop and this wearing a light sweater. It is a little daring, considering that it's freezing. The cashier on duty is my new friend and we make small chat. I had waited patiently in the queue, my hands full with little necessities...a bottle of milk, butter, crisps and the Sunday papers. This time, I choose The Observer and look forward to the book reviews. I come back with the sniffles and wish I had put on my coat.
I think it is the perfect day for instant noodles. Chinese but not a takeaway. I once stocked a bundle of packets for such moments. The steamy aroma is soothing.

I have just finished reading, a stage play, the one I bought yesterday from Chapters, called The Newman Murder by James Anthony Kelly. It tells the story of a bitter abused woman and I was so caught up in the 2 acts, that I didn't realise the main character would be murdered. It is a powerful and intense play although I feel the emotions of the characters are exaggerated. I also liked the idea of symbolism using objects, a bread bin for a snake and a dead lamb, representing the loss of goodness and a disillushioned love.
Plus, there are highly clever lines.
Last year, I wrote a play and stopped as it was one-thirds through. I still have it with me and realise while reading Kelly that my character roles had stayed on the right track.
I also learnt how a playwright could use different characters by shouting aloud instructions and lamentations, while glancing sideways - backstage - where the characters stay invisible, or staring at an audience while in contemplation.
When you think about it, it really feels surreal, reading a play in a cosy room, nestled in a favourite armchair, and eating grapes and drinking tea on a winter's day.
My read hints at obscurity, which makes it more special. The play was written in 1996 but there is no sign of the playwright or threatre, where it was to have been performed in Dublin, anywhere on the web.
I am all at once intrigued.
From somewhere, up the old chimneys, birds squawk in an excitable chatter.
I will spend the rest of the day being still, reading and writing my own story.
And the jigsaw puzzle... Of course. I had quite forgotten.