I would love to be a novelist. Being able to transfer the tales inside my head and onto crisp white paper for everyone to read. I can almost imagine myself perched at my little bureau, with tons of cushions, a cute little typewriter and a mug of green tea. Sounds so idyllic, ha, in my dreams. This is just a little number that I wrote a little while ago and found again.. hope you like :)
I woke to a head that felt so pressurized I was convinced that it was going to explode. I could tell from the way that my legs felt slightly cooler than my torso that I lay in a knot, the duvets tangled around my sweaty legs whilst my head and hands were buried in the mountain of pillows. Moving was difficult, and my body seemed to strain against me, pulling me back to the relaxation and care free dreams which lay dormant in my head.
I glimpsed the red led alarm clock display- 09.07, and felt a spasm of panic ripple through my body. I was late. Despite how awful I was feeling I was gripped with a sole minded determination to get up and rush around in an unnecessary fashion. For some strange reason I looked back to the clock display in disbelief at what I thought the time was. Wait, I paused calming my thoughts and trying to order them into a sensible way... it was a Saturday. A sense of reassurance and thankfulness rushed over me, like the swash of a wave covering a dilapidated beach.
Dilapidated was the perfect word to describe my life. Or explain. At school they were always trying to communicate the difference between state, describe and explain. I didn’t care, it was study leave and although as depressing as it was to admit I had nine more exams to undertake, teachers no longer had any power over me... basically I didn’t give a shit. School was such an effort, ever since we had had the unnecessary emotional leavers day (although about three quarters were coming back for sixth form) I couldn’t be arsed with school and the effort which it provoked. This was sadly a complete contrast to my previous school record, in which I had been willing to attend compulsory education and had even enjoyed the structured monotony of class, homework and overbearing teachers.
Stumbling out of bed, I had an unbelievable overdose of dizziness as my pelvis and head rushed to switch places. Coffee. That was what I needed. People always complained about the ‘acrid’ taste of instant coffee, and how everybody makes truly awful cups of black sludge. This had always seemed strange and hypocritical to me... why buy instant coffee in the first place if all you were going to do was criticize it. Yes coffee is known as a great pick me up, not exactly due to the high caffeine content, but due to the watery expresso crossed with concentrated scum taste that provoked you to jump up and run around conquering all the things on your mental to do list in a sort of placebo like effect, until you run out of energy and think that the only way to get sufficient energy is to turn back to another vile cup.
Downstairs the tiles which paved a generic path down the hallway and into the kitchen were strangely cold, despite the temperate weather. I hopped (half-heartedly in a sluggish, dragged way) onto the tiles which I knew from many years of practise would be warmed by under floor hot water pipes. They weren’t. The effort I had, therefore, imputed turned stale and left me with even less energy than I previously possessed- I was not amused, especially as all I wanted was a foul tasting cup of coffee, probably wouldn’t be any milk anyway.
So by the time that I was standing waiting for the cheap white plastic kettle to heat up (cursing at the obvious build up of lime scale which would further ruin my crap coffee) I was assessing my life, why it seemed so bad and what it lacked. They say that you should never compare yourself to anyone else- that you are your own person, but I couldn’t help compare myself to my friends and why quite frankly my life sucked.