The dishes needed washing. The dishes needed washing, as did the laundry, and the bathroom should be cleaned, and the entire apartment was covered over by a fine layer of scrapbooking supplies. And the trash hadn’t been taken out. At the very least, she should get out. And instead, she sat, sheets smelling slightly of sweat, staring at the wall and then the ceiling and then the wall again. It was a peace-that-was-not-peace: if she didn’t acknowledge the outside world (or the mess), it didn’t exist. But she had never been good at isolation. And the dishes still needed washing.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
A drabble, off of the Word of the Day - "Torpor" - which I would have liked to be more rigid and angry but instead comes off instead as clinically depressed: