There’s always tomorrow. And tomorrow. Next week. Year. Another lifetime…
My head is full. Creativity is at an all time low. Need to escape the current chaos. Need to stay put, ride out the storm. I want to write, talk, scream about anything and everything, but I can’t word good right now. So I have retreated to the one format I know I’m not too shabby at, and none of my readers have ever seen. Ooo, the suspense.
I also latterly realised this coincided with The Daily Post’s prompt, so here it is:
Life’s too short to avoid the inevitable.
LODGER: Shut up.
GUN: There’s only so many times /
LODGER: Shut up!
GUN: First the room across from the kitchen, then across from the bathroom,
now the top of the hall /
LODGER: Houses don’t talk. And I haven’t been in the first room since I was twelve!
GUN: It’s barely been a year since you smothered me in red paint /
LODGER: I like red.
And it was only two walls.
GUN: Yes, but you’ve left them red, and you’re doing it again /
LODGER: It’s a bigger room /
GUN: It is a bigger room /
LODGER: And it was suggested a while ago /
GUN: It was suggested a while ago /
LODGER: I admit, we could’ve done this long before I started painting /
GUN: Yes /
LODGER: But we didn’t, it happened, and now we’re here.
GUN: You know the definition of insanity is repeating the same action expecting
a different outcome?
I watch you. I’ve watched you for fifteen years. As you’ve grown, each
room was meant to bring you clarity. Mainly of storage space, I’ll grant
you, but of mind, too.
You have a busy mind, little Laidig. It keeps you awake long after the
witching hour, well into the minutes before dawn, when the imps lay thew
The rooms before this have failed you, haven’t they?
What makes you think this one won’t?