Today’s prompt says:
Write a scene using the following words: twig, fool, corrupt.

So I didn’t write this in 10 minutes. I wrote it in 15, maybe twenty. And over a few days.

bird_line

In the morning is when the pain is the worst. I don’t wake up from sleep, I’m more choked out of a sleepy state. Like a man gasping for his life, I get up in fits and starts. Frantically reaching for my phone to see if I’ve overslept.

I breathe a little when the fog clears and I can see that I’m on time, it’s okay. Sure I feel like a fool for thrashing around in the bed just so I can get a couple more minutes of rest, but it’s nearly unavoidable, considering the lead pull of sleep weighing me down.

I love the morning when I don’t have any hurry. No “gotta be at work”, no interviews. That’s what made the whole daily event corrupt – the world of work. Scratch that. Not the world of work, the world of Doing a Job You Don’t Want To Do So You Can Pay Bills and Have Good Credit.

On these mornings, I move extra slowly, almost daring time to pass me by. Playing some sort of game with the whole concept of being at work on time. It’s my animosity towards the whole concept, really. My way of saying a little ‘fuck you’ to these unwanted constraints on my time.

And how dare they, really. What is all this, all this fake shit we’ve built our lives around anyway. The fake ideas that there are bills to pay. What if we lived in a world where everyone just supported each other?

Or rather, what if I lived the way I really wanted to live? What if I went to work as a writer full-time? What if I just picked up a pen instead of a bus pass, and started writing instead of dealing with a 1.5 hour commute to a place I don’t really want to be?

Shit.

How long have I been standing here? I completely zoned out. The clock says I have 20 minutes. I have plenty of time.

And so I start again – see how easy that was? Moving around my room, looking for the other sock to go with the one that’s in my hand. There’s fresh snow outside. I take a minute to just look out the window – I can afford a minute.

You can barely see anything on the ground, in the yard, one twig is laying almost in the middle of all white. Everything is so slow in the winter. At this moment I can’t even feel the anticipation of warmer weather. That’s what keeps me afloat, that’s what keeps me positive over these months: the anticipation of warmer weather.

And the dream. The dream keeps me going to. I keep going because I have faith that {1:11} some day, at some point, all this will be different. I’ll live where I want to live, work doing something that I actually love and won’t have to deal with the rest of the shit.

Backed away from the window. I wonder what that would have looked like from someone outside? A woman at the window, perfectly still for one minute until the blind closes and she goes back into the inside of the house, maybe down some stairs, maybe in some bathroom.

My work clothes feel stiff. I don’t wear a uniform to work or anything, it’s just the clothes I have to wear to work. I wouldn’t actually choose to wear these clothes if I didn’t want to. But this is Professional Me, like some sort of malformed barbie in a box, sold in the bin marked ‘imperfect’.

I’ve established a routine to make all of this a little easier. And the first bit of satisfaction I feel this morning is at the realization that everything is in place. I just need to pour milk in a bowl full of dry cereal, pour the same milk in coffee that’s already brewed, and take my lunch and put it in a container.

Easy.

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