I want to be known for something important, something meaningful. I’m sick of staring at these ugly walls, and these old, meaningless paintings.
Although I must admit, I do desire just a modicum of the respect these artists have – respect from the respected, and the cherished.
Am I intelligent enough, though? Could I escape this claustrophobic madness? Escape and create a life free of loneliness.
Sometimes I feel I’m destined to be trapped here forever, surrounded by these rats, roaches, and leeches.
The rats keep me awake at night with their scratching – scurrying all around me, squeaking in my ear.
And I swear I can hear the roaches whispering, too, and clicking, their antennae grazing me – always watching me.
And, of course, the slimy leeches suck; even when I’m lying in bed, they’re filling themselves with my blood. They’re often on my head, zapping me, and draining me. I really should clean.
I need a fresh start – cleanse my life of this rot, before I end it all in a dramatic fashion. But then the filth would win!
It was never this way; I was once happy. I remember the peaceful family dinners, and the funny conversation.
I remember the morning commute, the train filled with hardworking people, out to earn an honest crust.
And I remember being sick of that, but if I’d have known better, I’d have remained – remained in those genuine, loving circles.
The phone is ringing now, and I know it’ll be someone trying to coax me from this pit, with more futile suggestions.
But I don’t want to leave – not just yet – I want to devise a plan first, before I disembark. I’ve stewed in this pot of misery for too many years now – inside this soulless cell.
The mirror disgusts me, but it does give me hope, in the sense that it surely cannot get any worse. I’m going to become someone better.
I’m going to explore, read, and perhaps swim, and climb, and learn another language, and breath – free of these expensive shackles.
I pull back the thick, heavy curtain, allowing the immaculate floor to see its first slither of sun for weeks. God knows how many roaches I wish I could squash on this pristine wood.
I scan my huge, shiny patio, which borders my underused, wasteful swimming pool. I’m envious of the man waxing the wheels of one of six of my gleaming, harmful vehicles.
The colours of the garden existed in no time at all, due to the abundance of cash I threw at it; I would rather sit on a bench in a graveyard.
Outside of the high, regal walls of this prison, stand tens of idiots desperate for me to emerge, waiting to click and flash, and scurrying to snap my patience in half,
and photograph the shattered pieces of my dignity as they lay on the hot asphalt under another blue sky. They can’t have it.
I’m going to become someone – someone better.