Bleak House

The minutes and hours pass so slowly.

I don’t know whether the pain or the pins and needles is hardest to deal with.

I look forward to a burst of sunshine through closed curtains but most days I have no idea what the weather is like out there.

I cannot gauge how warm or cold it is, out there in the real world or within  these four walls.  I have an independent climate system whose triggers and vagaries I don’t understand and whom I trust even less than real world forecasts and seasons.

These four walls.

They are so boring.

Does familiarity breed contempt?

These four walls.

They are the dirty mauve left by a previous decorator.

With alarming flames of red oozing through left by an even older decorator.

And with mauve encroachments on the once-white ceiling.

These four walls.

I see them.  They are etched into my memory, every crease and crack.

I see them in all the different lights of night and day.  I see them in the light of my hopelessness and my confinement.

These four walls.

Why don’t you just go and do something?  You’d feel better, not so tired if you just go and do something.

(I’m not trying, obviously).

(Too much rest makes you tired, obviously).

And the truth is that I do feel better when I get to spend a little time in some happy corner of the real world.

I love company, despite all my social problems.

I love to hear other people’s stories.

I love to watch their faces and hear their voices.

I’d like to say that it’s because I care but maybe it isn’t quite so altruistic.

I want, I need some distraction from my own problems, from my own pain, from these four walls.

These four walls.

They are frustratingly consistent and predictable.

They are boring.

I want to have even a toe in the real world.

I want to still belong out there.

Even if I have to do it by proxy, or more sinisterly, vicariously.

These four walls.

And the creeping tides of dust.

And the multiplying piles of washing.

They remind me, nagging, that life isn’t how I’d like it to be.

It’s a breath of fresh air to spend some time with good friends, wonderful people.

I am left buzzing, fired up and inspired.

And exhausted.

These four walls.

I don’t want them to be my life.

I don’t want them to be my world.

I am a caged creature.

A wild child, a free spirit ironically bound by their own limits.

These four walls.

Please just let me have a glimpse of lives and worlds beyond.


I'd love to know what you think, concrit is especially welcomed on fiction pieces. Thank you.

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