One Fine Morning...

It was transparent.

I sat up at

midnight reading the literature based newspapers

on my nightstand and

drinking the peach iced tea to

keep my eyes open and

my mouth shut.

My shoulders slumped

against the the black, leather headboard

and my television on, but muted with

subtitles playing the latest episode of

“Real Detective” that I was watching.

Birds, everywhere.

I knew that morning was approaching and yet,

I had not slept and had no reason to.

A copy of “The New Yorker” lay beside me,

questioning why it was on the rough, carpet of the floor instead

of where The Times sat, on my nightstand.

The truth was,

it fell some hours ago and I couldn’t be bothered to pick it up.

Cold winds of the morning flew through the window at the slightest

crack of it opening. The sound of the birds,

the neighbour’s menagerie and

someone screaming

came through almost simultaneously.

That is the thing about where we live -

if you hear the sound of screaming amongst

the roar of the outdoors you just ignore it

long enough for it to fade

into

all

the

other

noises of the day by noon.

It really is that simple.

Nobody ever knows whether it is a cry for help or a cry of joy,

you really cannot tell at all.

I stood at the blacked out curtains,

draping pink upon my floor,

they were in my hands as I stared down

the black cat from next door. It simply looks at me every single time.

The jolt of sugar running through my spine,

the scent of the almonds from the bowl

in my room congealing

against the wind through the crack in the window,

becoming ever larger.

A war of the scents that I am unaware of

as my eyes meet the cat.

It runs away.

And it’s gone.

Where? I don’t know.

I knock back an espresso,

a soya milkshake made from cocoa and crushed hazelnuts,

my depression and anxiety medication,

another espresso shot.

It’s alright.

I close the curtains

and the menagerie seeps

in through the press of my hands,

cold against the fabric of the curtain.

The sound of the birds,

the roar of the cat,

the stronghold scream of whoever is

across the street in another garden. It is still ignored. Sooner or later, it falls silent.

And it’s gone.

And so am I.

The treading of the

stairs down towards

me making myself a slice of toast,

the blinds wide open as I shut them

upon not being able to see through the rays

of light. My eyesight failing me ever since five to ten years before,

my glasses reflect too many things.

I am protected and I am silenced by my own sight.

The kettle, the newspaper, the books on my bedside

table which I bought downstairs with me

only to take back up again since I would never be able to read them within the

cultivated noise of the other people who reside within these walls.

I cannot breathe and I am suffocating. I stop

and cut the kettle off.

I make a coffee,

and a cup of mint tea infused with herbal

crap like eucalyptus. I sit myself down and I’m unable to eat.

I stare at the plate and as I do so,

the bile rising in my throat is finally reacting

with the way I have just taken my medication in a

stupor of espresso shots. It was a mistake.

The silence is a mistake.

I have no idea what this means but

I leave my breakfast right there, grab the cups and

books and all and trudge back to my bedroom.

Still silent

Sans everything.