The Inbetweener

This space between living and existing is monotonous and the simple pleasures I once valued are long forgotten. This is an attempt to remind myself that not everything was so mundane.

The light flutter of my eye lids rouses me from a depth of a slumber so deep it feels like the sharp intake of breath after diving into freezing water. My eyes sting from their lack of use and adjust unwillingly whilst my mind fights to wake up. All I see is a haze of light washing into the room hastening consciousness. I feel the bags under my eyes, and recollect that they must be a consequence of waking myself up fifteen times in the middle of the night so as to automatically pull back my cuartain and check the stars are still there. This is something I've done ever since I can remember and this small, insignificant routine now seems the sad echo of a girl whose greatest pleasure was once lying under a blanket with nothing but the stars and a long gone love for company. They are a glinting reminder of the cherished few moments shared with a man who had sand papery hands and a sweet, pleasantly musty smell. Steady, muffled thuds on a carpeted floor intrude upon my lighhtness and this is the moment when there is a feeling around my middle that reminds me that I have things to do, roles to fill, expectations to live up to.

I like the inbetween.