I woke up to the silent laughter of people I never hear from anymore, fading, like their faces, into the fuzzy blank ceiling. I felt
thirsty and had overslept, so I turned on the big light and the walls
became clearer, blanker, and much less fuzzy than their contemptuous smiles had become. Yes, those curled lips had already started
to fray at the seams, and I went to work at whose they were, but all
I could get my hands on were the tattered rags of some old mask,
with its familiar eyes turned towards someone else, knowingly. I
tossed it aside; yes, I did not care for the psychoanalysis this morning. It was just a dream.
I knew it was not a nightmare because my clothes felt pretty dry,
for once. I went to get a drink and did not feel the need for anything but water – so cool. Even the air in my studio tasted fresh.
The blinds opened onto those unforgiving streets, and I felt the midday sun rush some natural serotonin through my skin. This frisson
fl owed faster. The unpaid bills I had thrown at the wall after ‘quitting’ looked so banal. What a stupid act! I would work it out. Yes, I
would not miss the bar.
I decided to go for a walk. Chapel Street felt a little friendlier today
– well, a little more than it had the previous night, when everyone
was very glad that I was casting my life into this pit. It does feel
better when you do it with someone. Another call came from my old
manager, which I missed, of course. Then, my ‘friend’ texted, raving
about the night us ghouls-for-the-weekend came shambling out of,
so, yes, I left him on read, and I never heard from him again.
Ghosted
