Getting things off my chest is a weird way I find most of my writing ideas. Whether that be some odd imaginative high or some disturbing turmoil of my disintegrating mind.
At the moment I feel overwhelmed with time. Time as an ideology or time as the functioning movement – you decide. It feels like the clock is ticking two steps ahead of me. It ticks and ticks as I grapple with the idea of its intensity. I cannot tell if this is some weird reaction to the current usurp of our living conditions or if it is a haunting that I have always felt within. All I know at the minute is that I feel that tick marching with the humdrum clang of my heart.
It storms towards a hill, beyond the bleak horizon that surrounds it. It races to the peak in hopes of the bright skyline we once called ‘normality’. Once it gets there it is simply greeted with the same dried out routine that we have come to know so well. There is no final soliloquy, no easy coupling in this tragedy.
I lay here in my uneven sheets, the cold midnight air clawing its way into my lungs. Our heating hasn’t been on in days, but we remain stubborn in keeping our bills down. I watch the clouds that pass my window. They block me from the twilight escape that I find amidst the thousands of stars. They mock me in their ambivalence, twinkles becoming no more than childhood memories.
Hour after hour passes by and I still have no peace here. My mind has forgotten what sleep once was. I close my eyes and I am followed by others. Eyes are the only things that manage to sneer their way through those clouds. It is not that nagging Big Brother I am worried about, but the snicker from stranger’s unseen.
