Saturday, 10 August 2013

Waken

I wake to the sound of wasps. I wake to the sound of a dog's nails on a tiled bathroom floor. I wake to the sound of thunder.

All my dreams were of women. In my dreams, I was pulling sunflower seeds from flower heads and testing them between my teeth like pearls. All the women in my dreams were on trains.

I wake and across the road there is a man with all his windows open singing gloriously out-of-tune pop songs, loud and unashamed. It is 10 a.m. on a Saturday morning and the hour for karaoke is past. I raise a mug of coffee to you, Captain Pop Song; I am delighted you are unencumbered by modesty. It is the responsibility of the tuneless to tell the rest of the world it is all--all of this--fine.

Sometimes we are all just colourblind children, turning the rubix cube in our hand and trying to figure which side is the same. Decide you know nothing or decide that from your eyes it is all perfectly right.

I wake to the smell of coffee and I pour myself a cup and wander out onto the balcony, ragged dog nails clicking on the cold tiled floor. Place a cliché beneath my tongue and let it dissolve into my bloodstream.

Every time is the first of the rest of my life. Every last one of them. There are no wolves to judge us. No sentries to stop us from starting again.

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