I’ve been cleaning and sorting through a lot of my possessions over the past few weeks. I’m trying to pare down, to get more organized, and to just be rid of so much STUFF. I have this tendency to write thoughts, ideas, and bits of stories down on scraps of paper. I usually don’t do anything with them; I just let the scraps accumulate and then eventually I sift through them years later as I am doing now.
I found this bit of prose that I thought I’d share here. I don’t know when I wrote it, though it was some time in the last six years since I’ve moved to Memphis. The interesting thing to me about this snippet is that I cannot for the life of me remember if this was meant to be fiction or if this is just me in some fit of insomnia giving a running commentary of my life.
You wake up–terrified. Part of a subplot that runs so deep you can’t remotely fathom it. It’s dark and quiet. Almost too quiet. 3 a.m. quiet. Too late for people to be driving in and out of the apartment complex, but too early for them to be leaving for work. A street light shines through the Venetian blinds into your eyes as you turn your head to the right. You lie awake, blinking, expecting to hear a knock on your door at any moment. It never comes.
You get up in the morning, hoping the hot shower will shock you awake. Your toast is dry. Your coffee scalding. During your commute to work you listen to London Calling. This will be the highlight of your day. You look at all the other drivers when you sit at stoplights and wonder why they all look like zombies.
It’s funny how “fact” and “fiction” are sometimes indistinguishable, isn’t it?