A picture: ratted dark hair and glasses which do not leave the house. They are slanted on my face and clouded with finger prints. I am used to seeing blind; I have contacts for when I leave home. I don’t really like leaving the house. I leave the house just long enough so that I do not go insane with lust. Yes, you can lust for sunshine or beg for rain.
The laptop screen stares back at me although I spend most of my time typing staring at my fingers. Apparently, I did not pay attention when we were taught how to type properly in home row. As far as I am concerned my fingers do not have a home; they are simply attached to my wrist somehow.
Click, Click Click.
Cafe Crema made on the Tassimo and Terry O Reilly on the radio. He speaks to me each morning about advertising. It’s bloody interesting and so I listen over and over again because I never hear anything when I’m writing. Just the clicking of my fingers and the fire in my mind.
I am wrapped in an ugly grey blanket and Blake’s coat. My green pill case is on the right, coffee to the left, and my large antique looking record player on the desk. The glass desk. I almost remember the girl who used to play with white fire on this desk. She would have still been awake and this time tomorrow she would still be awake. Her legs would ache and her tongue rippled like a Siamese fighter fish. The sides all chewed up from her teeth.
A comparison: the woman with smeared glasses and uneven skin; the world will not ever meet her. The woman with rouge on her cheeks and a diamond ring her other half bought her (little sentimentality tied to it). My jewellery shines and my clothes pass for trendy. I have shaved my entire body – apparently toe nails do not grow hair – and I have lathered myself with cocoa butter and Calvin Klein perfume. My hair is pulled to the side and sunglasses are placed upon my face. I look pretty, albeit adorned in yoga pants and new Nike running shoes.
Who is the real woman?
The child who could not type properly has created two. I wish I could kiss that child on the cheek and tell her that it’s okay to be active in the world – to stop staring at her little hands and thinking they are Just Not Right.
The little girl was just fine, her face and mind clean.