by Kevin Wood
water (with a piece of stale bread)
Isolation. Day One Thousand, Four Hundred and Eighty-Three. Another day. And yet every day is the same. Here surrounded by the same four walls.
To my left is small window where sometimes shafts of sunlight glint through in the morning. To my right a window where the sun may appear later in the day. Today there is no sun. Just grey. And cold.
I busy myself doing trivial tasks. But tasks that are now important parts of the day to me. I read. I read a lot more than I used to. I touch each of the four walls in turn as if tenderly caressing them. Like I am sending a message to them. I am still here. I will often walk around the darkened room.
I’ve started counting how many times I do these things each day. Some days I do this more than others. On other days I just stare impassively at the walls. I often imagine the wall in front of me. I imagine my friends are standing by it. Sometimes I smile at them. Sometimes I talk to them. Sometimes they answer me. Sometimes they don’t.
As the minutes turned into hours something appeared to disturb me. Something crossed my eyeline. Startled I tried to focus on where this object seemed to have gone to in the room. It was a fly. Its flight was random as it moved to and fro around the room. After a while It settled above me on the ceiling.
I smiled. It brought me some relief to watch it as it moved around. It was a happy distraction that helped to break up the monotony of the day. The appearance of my flying friend had served this purpose.
The sun is shining through the window to my right now.
Soon the day will be over. Another day will be done. Another day alone. Tomorrow will be another day.
Isolation. Day One Thousand, Four hundred and Eighty-Four.
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