Do not ring the bell

"Hello there. Welcome to my world. No, don't be embarrassed. It is a little unkempt, mostly in disarray. Oh, careful with the door please - don't bang it shut. I always have trouble sleeping with those hinges swaying to a tune of their own.

Ah, yes. The east side windows are boarded up. Not a very neat piece of carpentry that. I just seem to hate the morning sun. It conspires thoughts of murderous pity in me. Burns through my skin, truth be told. My neighbours, they seem to enjoy it though. Immensely, collectively. Every morning they make elaborate preparations to avoid getting burnt. They have even written songs about the charade. Inane songs really, especially when I listen to it from that high chair next to the window. They amuse me - grinning wide, almost competing with each other, when the morning sun gathers them into a rag tag orchestra of sorts. Those boards, really - they are to avoid watching the spectacle.

The scarred and slit roof - that I inherited. Nothing I particularly admire about that either. The afternoon sun barges in like my aunts from Arog. Despicable place that. But my cat, Mellon, seems to like my aunts. And he is happiest playing with the shifting shadows of the coconut palm above the broken roof. It keeps him busy, all afternoon. He hurts himself, trying to catch the little yellow circles - much to the dismay of my dog. Collie, she is a little circumspect about my aunts. But only for a while. Soon, she would be busy wagging her tail, panting and enjoying Mellon's antics - and bring down my carefully arranged chaos.

The evenings are the only enjoyable part in here. I never removed the plastic coverings in which those east side boards came in, and the fading sunlight schemes up a brilliant display of gloomy afterglow within. But alas! I cannot open the door for my neighbours. The striking sharp wafts from without mercilessly kill the dancing queen within.

And it lasts for a very short while anyway. My generosity with the lights would always seem misplaced and pretentious to me. They fade away, too quickly, before you can sink in. Like that girl I once fell in love with. Contempt got familiar with us sooner than we could with each other. For the fading light, though, the parting is bittersweet. For, unlike the girl, my dancing lights will come again.

Oh no, it is not over yet. The real wonder of this world is the night. When Mellon, Collie are cuddled up with me, tired of their day long playing with my Arog aunts, and the sharp shadows of the lone candle fiercely battle the soft diffuse moonlight seeping through my broken roof, is when the Madman ventures out in the streets. I often suspect him of trying to break my front door down - but the pile of yellowing paper that keeps collecting itself behind my door, seems to hold the Madman back.

And you can wait and watch, with me and the sickly sweet sensation of terror biting your insides, wait and watch - who will win, the madman or the sandman.

Remember, what the doormouse said.

Run, Rabbit Run,
Dig that hole, forget the Sun,
And when at last the work is done,
don't sit down, its time to dig an another one.

How profound. How prophetic. How poignant.

Mom. Dad. A red pill. A blue pill. A yellow pill. A white pill. All ates and ines. Psyches.I don't know the names. A stolen cigarette break. And one big anti-depressant called life. One fuckin big dose of it.

Plus.

One hour contemplating Tool. 'Fuck Smiley Glad-Hands with Hidden Agendas'. One hour spent in retrospect over that hour spent in contemplation. 9 hours spent watching absolutely stupid British romances. One hour simply dozing off with a smile on your face for all these hours that are available. For free.

And a wake up call called 'Time'. By the time you've gathered what has been strewn all around by the medication, by the time you realize what time it is - Roger utters the golden lines.

Run.
Rabbit.
Run.

Think about it.
Think really hard about it.

You don't have to.
You don't need to.
Fuck the run.
Fuck the race.
Its for the rats anyway.
Fuck that extra dime in your sagging pocket.
Fuck that wooden step on the fucked up ladder.

Stop. Breathe. Breathe in the air.
Look around. Think. Decide. For yourself.

Take a month off.