Was going to write something all profound for this space. Instead I've put the Cardiacs on and I'm just going to see where this post takes, trying to imitate Kerouac I suppose.
He woke up, looked around, trying to hold onto the bed hoping the bed would stop spinning. The sun was casting a sickly yellow glow around the room. He could see where the damp was rising up the wall, a race against the peeling wallpaper making its way down the wall. The carpet was rising in the corners, the TV blaring in the corner, must have left it on last night.
Standing up, legs shaking. Looking for a gown, pulling on its tattered remains, longing to be anywhere but here. Fighting everyday and never winning, always fighting. Life was a battleground, your too lose or forever spend in the trenches. A bloody battle in which all sides lose, no victories can ever be permanent. Walking to the door, never mind leaving was always a challenge. Outside was better left outside. People everywhere, scuttling about. Talking, chattering nonsense. Was it of any importance?
Fighting and jostling for position. Always in despair that they are not richer. Losing everyday. Death surrounding all. Always racing, yet never finishing. Rushing, battling for position. Still it was nearing time to leave the room. Join them in a sickly dance. The sun was nauseas.
Finding cords and putting them on, he opened the door. Bathed in light. Fighting with the key to lock the door, wondering why to lock the door as there was no possessions of any value to be secured. Keeping the world out of his sanctuary, was the most important practice. His religious sanctity had to be preserved.
Walking down the street, avoiding the cracks. Roots of trees pushing up areas of the tarmac, searching for nourishment, seeking life. Needing the energy to survive. It was all a fight. Tripping over, he swore at the ground, then feeling embarrassed he continued. Avoiding the people, eyes downcast so as to avoid everyone. The solitary walk, fighting the urge to run and be done. Walking on and on, the sun baking his skin, turning it to leather. Finally he was done.
