He wakes up. His chest is still heavy with congestion but this is an improvement on the depression and sadness and the unrelenting hopelessness that weighed down on his body throughout the winter months. He wonders if last night his body smelled of ammonia as he twisted sweating in the yoga studio. He feels healthy and vibrant. This morning he had to change a diaper on a child who had filled it with poo. The child was unhelpful as it sought to smear the excrement over it’s fingers and the uncovered parts of it’s body. He writes some more of his novel. He learnt last night that if he self-publishes a book then he can nominate himself for a Pulitzer Prize. This idea amuses him and he thinks that he would like to do this one day. He probably won’t do it but he would like to. He is truly happy at the moment and he is enjoying life and wonders why he didn’t try to be more proactive before but of course he has been this proactive before and he has been this happy and he knows, as it gnaws with tiny little teeth, at the back of his brain, that the unhappiness will return at some point. For now it is distant, stomping and unhappy on a distant hill. He will leave it there for now. He sleeps.
The Sleepcoat League
Armchair anthropologist, sometime scribe, freelance philosopher, amateur artist, part-time poet, musical maven, alliteration aficionado. View all posts by The Sleepcoat League