Seventh Day

I’m bored. Again.

Yesterday nothing happened. And guess what? Today nothing happens. Got to think of something to do. I thought maybe I could play noughts and crosses. 42 games I played. Every single one ended in a draw: I know my opponent too well.

It’s looking like we’re going to be here for the long haul. It’s been a week now I think. Can’t just sit and worry, racking my brains for some buried explanatory guilt. Need a strategy here. Could try and escape? Not really me: I’m a waiter not a doer. I’m happy to watch, there’s just nothing here to watch. Could jump up and down a lot or lift my bed. Get strong, measure my expanding biceps. They might think I’ve gone mad. Or I’m training for something. Would that help?

Writing helps, I think. Gives me something to do, something to think and to do. But it’s dangerous. Must resist spiralling into my own thoughts. Getting lost in the wordy wilderness. I read back over what I’ve already written: I must resist this over-analysing hysteria. It’s only been a week. I need some structure here.

This then is the task: keep writing, but check. Once every week check. Read back over. Read back over as if it is somebody else’s work, as if this is not me here but a different person, each day writing. And I am simply their reader.

I’m not here.

I’m just watching.