WORK IN PROGRESS, WILL BE COMPLETED LATER.
I am writing this having recently finished Sylvia Plath's "The Bell Jar" as I find her insanity gripping, inspiring, and something I can relate to frighteningly well.
I am too afraid to look at my watch which sits on my bedside table as I fear what it may tell me. I only fell asleep at about half past one in the morning and since then it feels like an eternity has passed over my tiny little bedroom, time somehow rushing past overnight so that it is now a week since I first settled myself in these uncomfortable sheets.
I am rather disappointed when I choose that I need to relieve myself some ten minutes later that it is only a quarter to ten of the following morning. It find myself becoming annoyed due to the fact that my mind can convince me so apparently that one thing is true, when in fact reality is nothing further from the place I left when I sped off on the train of thought which stopped at the fantastical world my imagination, and longing for drama and excitement, invented.
After about twenty minutes of staring at myself in the bathroom mirror, trying to distinguish any difference, however small, which may have manifested over night giving some kind of justification that the fictional beliefs I had when I woke this morning had some kind of truth to them, I go downstairs to find an empty house. This is not unexpected. Both of my parents would have left for work some two hours previously, my elder brother is presumably still at university studying for his exams, and it is neither Monday nor Wednesday - the days on which our cleaner came for a couple of hours in the morning.
The kitchen is warm when I walk in, but I am saddened by the cold grey sky which glares at me through the window. I think of drawing the curtains, but I am without the mentality of wanting to drag the seldom-used orange cloth in front of the dull vision and disrupting the many odds and ends which balance precariously on the wooden sill.
I go to the old wooden cupboards which hide the boxes of cereal and at the sight of either cornflakes or shreddies, immediately close them, I have neither the craving nor the ability to stomach either brand at the moment, or indeed for the foreseeable future.
Deciding that I am not terrible hungry anyway, I ascend the stairs again, taking them slowly so as to give myself the time to decide what it is I will do when I reach the top. By the time I have arrived on the landing, I realize that instead of giving myself a course of action I have simply been humming the tune of some Rihanna song whose name I cannot quite remember. Presented now with the doors to my bedroom and the bathroom, I opt to return to the latter, after retrieving my towel from the radiator in the former, in preparation for a shower.
I strip down, slinging my clothes carelessly towards the door which I have left open, and step into the shower, pressing the button to begin the stream of water. Immediately I am shocked with a blast of icy droplets cascading over my naked body and I cry out in pain at the unwelcome surprise. Smacking the showerhead away I hop out of the glass cubicle almost toppling into the sink behind me.
I allow the water to run for a minute before tentatively stepping back into the shower and testing the stream with my left foot, before pulling the showerhead back towards me, satisfied with its new found warmth.
I stand for a few minutes, allowing the water to rid me of the shivers which were resultant from the previous coldness, before I feel words rising in my throat. Before I am able to stop myself, I am belting out the lyrics to the se Rihanna song I was previously humming which I am now able to identify as "We Found Love". When I reach the end of the second verse, I begin the song again, repeating this a further six timed before I am satisfactorily clean and I press to button to turn the shower off.
I quickly towel myself dry and step out onto the worn rug on top of the tiled floor of the bathroom, my feet covering the top of a dirty looking lighthouse, taking full advantage of being in am empty house and casually tossing the towel up onto my right shoulder, exting the condensation filled room into the hall, my naked body fully exposed.
I stroll casually into my bedroom, enjoying the free feeling of wearing nothing at all, and search with quick result for some deodorant, spraying myself so heavily I almost choke from the excessive fumes.
I go to open my underwear drawer with the hopes of finding my lucky striped boxer shorts, but come up disappointed. Slightly chilly, but non-disheartened, I decide to select a red t-shirt to wear, pulling it over my damp head and continuing the search for my fortuitous underwear.
I move downstairs, catching a glimpse of my person in the mirror at the bottom or the stairs and am stricken with laughter at my resemblance to Winnie the Pooh in my wearing nothing but a red t-shirt. Noticing the hall window however, I am presented with the thought that anybody might look in and see me in all my glory, so quickly move my hands to protect my manhood and move hurriedly towards the pile of clean washing on the hall table.
