2.10am – what? The third time I have woken since 11pm. I want the can of lemon fizzy pop that’s been in my fridge for six months. I am so thirsty and water just won’t cut it. I don’t want to rise, but until I drink the thing I am going to keep waking and I want my sleep. In the dark, feeling my way to the fridge, I make the journey to the can, pull and hear it fizz. I reach for a glass and can just make it out in the light of darkness. I gauge the volume with my thumb inside the glass, and wait until the hissing subsides. I drink quickly – mixture of too cold and fizz quenches my thirst. The after-burst of sugar makes me wince, and the fizz fills me up enough to go back to bed. Thank goodness that is over.
The fraud sits like a matchstick girl. Tiny on a giant heavy chair, feet dangling mid air to nowhere. A giant pen, nib barely touching paper scraps. Impossible. Even if she could write something, how will all the words fit on such a minute page? Yet she cannot begin even one word, let alone fill up the tiny scrap with eloquence. No illumination as books are stacked high like walls around the table blocking the sun. Sealing her in. They wobble about as though taunting her through their dance. Shrinking further, if there was a hole she could be Alice, just fall, disappear. But her heart is more Vixen than Rabbit. Matchstick with a heart more fiery than a flame. Finally ink stains the paper, not as melodious whisper but as rock guitar and leather clad drum. Rocking and beating out an inky stain of viable, visible existence.
Death by TV
The television is running on low volume in the background. It fills empty surroundings with the company of nostalgic experience, regularly interrupted by loud, mostly obscene commercials aimed at igniting desire and guilt in daily sitters. Daytime television is a vile addiction that numbs life with greed and unsatisfactory existence. Her feelings of inadequacy and displeasure help her to remain seated. Immobilized and feeling chilly she reaches for a small blanket and wraps herself up. She reminisces about life, lost moments, missed opportunities until one commercial too many, she journeys her way to the kettle for a cup of tea. Comfortably holding the scolding mug she imagines a brisk walk, a routine of busyness, a feeling of energy, making plans, writing, painting, knitting, joining groups, going to church, loving. She finishes her tea, and having momentarily lived, she feels exhausted and wraps herself up to die once more.