Fragments

The warbling sounds of King Crimson’s "21st Century Schizoid Man" sliced through the tainted air, the distorted chords and piercing saxophone searching out and probing even the darkest corners of the room. Sitting on my bed life seemed to resemble this song more than ever, the distorted guitar a musical representation of a peculiar strand of confusion, lingering inside my head like an impertinent smog, clouding rational thought. Only last week my life exploded, entering a new phase of disorder, I had become the 21st century schizoid man. My hands incessently trembled, and I couldn't sleep. The nights were now spent staring at the ceiling puzzling out what made all this happen. Any attempts to sit still were in vain, my legs always on edge, tapping, tapping, tapping, my body infused with some restless weakness which was wholly insurmountable. An incense stick burned in the corner of the room a tail of ash dropping off the end, the mesmerising smoke clouding the air, rising, forming, flowering, kaleidoscopic intricate patterns engulfing themselves, perfuming the room. Everything felt warm, numb, everything tingling and fuzzy, yet still unable to sleep, still tapping, dreaming, and dying, all over again; following that reptilian, screaming saxophone noise through the air with a single grubby index finger. I decided to get up, rolled off my bed, the disorientation extreme, yet, on my feet. Pull the curtains away from each other to reveal a darkness, sprinkled with illuminated windows of the neighbouring houses. I don't know what time it is. I sit for a while, watch a man walk from room to room, pacing, thinking. Another elderly woman battles with her small, almost rodent-like dog before closing the door on it. The small animal's slender whine reaches my ears through the double glazing and background music, it is somehow melodic. Walking to the door in the warm light of the room, I grip the handle, and pull, slowly. The door is heavier than usual, but relents. I languidly wander downstairs and sit down on the sofa. I begin to think this whole situation over. Only fragments of memory remain. The alluring sound of heels on cobbles, muffled laughter and the insatiable scent of dusk.

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THIS IS NOT AN EXIT