Staircase

A different angle gave a different perspective. I lay across several stairs and just inhaled the dust from the old carpet.

The scent focused me in on the time and space in which I was existing, like a hug from a friend after a long cry. I took stock of everything. I didn't move. I felt my shin throb. The pain was then joined by the pang of unachieved deadlines and weak moments, where pleas went unanswered in the dark.

I raised my head to see light from the street lamps falling across the tattered chair, at the turning point of the staircase. I didn't stand. I pulled myself level with the armchair, then poured my body into it's lap. It smelled the same as the carpet. Perching, looking out over the street, I saw the housing commission flats and the congregation's departure as the restaurant-goers arrived.

I spun around slowly, then slumped. With my back to the window, I surveyed the final leg of my journey. Two arms either side of me- I pushed mine off the chair's and stood up. I needed sleep. I needed human company.

But not nearly as much as I needed to be free from such needs.