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Not so much a love letter

I canít remember the last time 07:30 filled me with the urgency to write; itís easy to imagine that this is a first. The cup of coffee next to me pleads for a cigarette, but I question its intentions. It will leave me sluggish; almost drugged at this hour in which I need my mind. Yet, I think I already know that I am giving in to it. Coffee and cigarettes, and my weakness to romanticismÖ

Itís 07:47 now and the smoke takes to my nose whilst I type with both hands. I can curl in to a ball - my knees tucked in to my chest- and face the ceiling whilst I execute fifteen pull-ups. Sarah is running late for work again, but Iím not so sure it can be classified as running late when it happens every morning; I think it is just that the end of her morning routine calls for rapidity and urgency. I am trying to slow things down.

I am trying to not be so bothered by these recurring images. I try and let them dance with me without too much internal monologue, yet I find myself hoping that they will take a cruel serpentís form. I no longer find myself with a lost erection, but instead I just accommodate the self-pitying sense of being plagued by something. I am in the midst of a journey as we should all be: I am allowing each thought to pass through me and taking notes. I want to learn what connects everything to everything. There are reasons why Sarah spends the last five minutes of her mornings cursing the absence of another ten minutes; her curse words growing harsher and more frequent. Just as there is no doubt a reason why someone is looking at me from the corner of a room, refusing to take the serpentís form.

I will plunge in to a hot bath and concentrate on my breathing. Taking note of each breath out until I count to four and then starting again. I will keep going. My mind will stay blank for around ten repetitions of this until it is there again; staring at me from the corner of a room. The cigarette has jarred my chest at half empty and filled my stomach with air. I have the taste of menthol on my lips; itís a gentle burning sensation the area of the wrong filter tip.

Now, the house is empty; all but the slamming of the front door. Done.

I spent a long time wondering just how one individual could spend so much time upstairs. I have learnt to accept that it was my romanticism fighting against reality. It is what you represent. I hope that you can take it as a complement that you represent what you do. I have too much anxiety over it to ever impress you the way I would have liked to. There will be others, I tell myself. It is 08:08, and I should really take the plunge. My mind is unwinding. My drama and my emotive language are bouncing around beautifully as they often do when I allow them to breathe. The fruits of creativity.

I hope you managed to read the book I gave you. Not because I care for any further romantic attachment to what you represent, but because I am working on that, and more people should be reading Ďgoodí literature. Have a good week. In, hold, out, 1. In, hold, out, 2. In, hold, out, 3. In, hold, out, 4Ö There you are again, but itís not really you. Funny really.
CruelHandedWriter
Written by CruelHandedWriter (Jamie Rhodes)
Published
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