The Doldrums of Drew. By CpSingleton © 2017
Drew sprawled out on the bed, legs wide apart, hands on the crown of his head, as if being arrested, and closed his eyes to the disappointing world around him.
Within the shell he inhabited he clasped the key to his dark place.
A garden where the trees where charred black and leafless. The sky above was a stew of unwanted thoughts and the air was sour to the taste.
Drew had felt that way since he’d first groaned open his heavy lids that morning, half-expecting them to creak as they went.
Every now and again his brain would take Drew’s hand and push him towards the precipice of his consciousness, where he would
see and hear snippets of conversations from the mouths of strangers and the long since scrubbed from his play.
He only once tipped over the precipice, feeling the empty echoing bite his soul, before spitting him back into reality with a gasp of confused breath.
The night would be long, unless he found another garden to stroll in.
A garden with flora not long since rotten; a place where the fairies played with abandon and didn’t just stand like puppets, staring at the rotting corpses of kin they didn’t have the strength to bury.
Drew dragged himself up the bed and leaned his heavy head against the pillows, before glancing down at the black abscess of a television that sat on a table just beyond his feet.
He wouldn’t turn it on. What was the point? Some loony had been inaugurated as president and the world was a yin and yang of fascist fury and democratic delusion. Each of the many channels of shit would be showing something to dedicate the day of decline.
Drew presumed that world loved to replay past madnesses. Just like some of the channels of shit.
One moment mouths were wide with horror at the evils of humans and they next they were doing it all again.
Thousands of years of copies. Only the styles and clarity of colour on the TV screen altered.
Drew stood, yawned and then slipped his whole body under the cover to wait for tomorrow.