Like a messy bedroom or a pile of dirty dishes in the sink
time asserts itself into reality with gruesome pertinence
yet I still pretend I haven’t noticed it.
There’s this conniving little space between moments, sometimes, probably close to 6am and closer still to bare skin, it slips in slowly and steals the sleep from our tear ducts. It’s that gap we all have to jump if we’re still awake, usually with newborn limbs and absent eyes, an enormous yet fleeting fraction of acceptance, forced upon us by the persistence of sunlight through bedroom windows that (in my case) hide nothing at all.
Contingency plans and over-formed concepts are wilted in the milky haze, the heart-wrenching conduct of that theory called ‘normality’ is belittled until it is finer than dust and even less significant, so thin, so sparse, we simply consume it with a single breath. The abstraction of conformity is debased, blanketed by the nonchalance of a Sunday morning sunrise, and we ask, no, we sigh: ‘oh, why can’t I live this entire life here within my room?’
The answer is a slow-moving vehicle manned by Hollywood jaw lines, sharp enough to slice through marble, and eyes that do nothing more than shade the horridly arid form of a hollow man, and it’s all made from splinters of the days where we forget normality and expectation; pens and ink, reeds and guitar strings, soil and seeds, only the delight of such things is all frozen and deadened in a snail-slime lacquer they’ve used to keep the colours from running.
And that’s who’ll you meet at the destination, that’s who you’ll marry your life to, this stale, tasteless mass of tailored thoughts and standardised feelings, sensibility sighing from the pores like a puff of mould particles exhaled from a crack between a musty, shed-dwelling couch when sat upon; be so careful to keep your eyes closed and your mouth shut tight; this is infectious, this is contagious, this is the defining moment, be so careful.
Ride that space between night and sunrise, between rest and wake, and let it carry you, as though you were a precious baby, to the one place you’ll never have to leave, that corner in your chest that floods so frequently with a fervent yearning for an absolute solution.
By Tess Van Deyk