Sitting in the clear morning, a blue sky being slowly edged out by a coming storm, he sits and waits. The days are passing by slowly, the clock is made of molasses. He remembers, 12 months ago, the deepness of the trenches he buried himself in. He has been trying so hard to dig himself out, so hard.
There was a cat, one time, that brushed his leg. It left it's undercoat, that shaggy white winter growth. It passed him by without a care, rubbing lightly, then nothing. No look back, no cute little kitty meow, nothing. A slight brush and a flick of the tail. Thinking back, he wonders what the cat was thinking. What felonious feline thoughts were making their way through that small, delicate grey and black head? Then, he realizes that it doesn't matter. Nothing has mattered for the past couple of weeks now. Nothing of any import really has happened. His room hasn't changed, his sheets are even still the same. Those same canary yellow sheets still draped across the seldom used cot. Some would say bed, but they would be hopelessly wrong. A bed sounds inviting. This bird encrusted mockery is nothing of the sort.
Looking out of the window, the southernmost point of the room, he can see a disturbance in the sky. The storm is most definitely brewing. He had heard some people talking about it earlier, but had paid them no mind. He has always heard people saying a lot of things, but he had never really listened to any of them. Maybe that is why he has ended up in the position he is. Choices abound, which choice to make, all the wrong ones so far.
"It's almost time to eat," he hears from somewhere. His mind tells him it is the voice of his mother, but he can't be certain. He can't tell, really, if that is even what he heard. So many sleepless nights, strung together like cheaply made Christmas lights, make his thoughts flicker.
A lot has happened to him in the past 12 months. There have been many, many beginnings followed by many, many abrupt endings. All of them his own choices, all of them his own doing. No one to blame, its always the same. He accepts responsibility for it all. That is why he can't sleep, not in that birdcage. Too many thoughts connected like a tug boat to a barge, his thoughts are full of garbage, trash, decaying particulates of former ideas which could have, at one time, been considered good.
There was a cat, one time, that brushed his leg. It left it's undercoat, that shaggy white winter growth. It passed him by without a care, rubbing lightly, then nothing. No look back, no cute little kitty meow, nothing. A slight brush and a flick of the tail. Thinking back, he wonders what the cat was thinking. What felonious feline thoughts were making their way through that small, delicate grey and black head? Then, he realizes that it doesn't matter. Nothing has mattered for the past couple of weeks now. Nothing of any import really has happened. His room hasn't changed, his sheets are even still the same. Those same canary yellow sheets still draped across the seldom used cot. Some would say bed, but they would be hopelessly wrong. A bed sounds inviting. This bird encrusted mockery is nothing of the sort.
Looking out of the window, the southernmost point of the room, he can see a disturbance in the sky. The storm is most definitely brewing. He had heard some people talking about it earlier, but had paid them no mind. He has always heard people saying a lot of things, but he had never really listened to any of them. Maybe that is why he has ended up in the position he is. Choices abound, which choice to make, all the wrong ones so far.
"It's almost time to eat," he hears from somewhere. His mind tells him it is the voice of his mother, but he can't be certain. He can't tell, really, if that is even what he heard. So many sleepless nights, strung together like cheaply made Christmas lights, make his thoughts flicker.
A lot has happened to him in the past 12 months. There have been many, many beginnings followed by many, many abrupt endings. All of them his own choices, all of them his own doing. No one to blame, its always the same. He accepts responsibility for it all. That is why he can't sleep, not in that birdcage. Too many thoughts connected like a tug boat to a barge, his thoughts are full of garbage, trash, decaying particulates of former ideas which could have, at one time, been considered good.
christinarenee:
