I have partnered with the aurora to write. As the goddess of dawn rises so too does my word count and forced half diligence.
Great lines! Great lines! My bad knee for a great line! The thesaurus by my side, the committed google search closer. This is terrible writing but I'm told it must be done. Better for it to manifest here than on a page I wish to publish...
Five minutes passed. Five minutes I committed solely to my thoughts rather than the page. The sun had upped, never once losing time. I play some progressive electro music from a Japanese band I cannot pronounce. They make me anxious. A work colleague (wanted to call him a friend – anyone who shares the news of their parent's death while actively steering clear of emotive words should always be considered a possible friend) put me on to them. They made him anxious, he said. Made him feel as though he is already late for a function he needed to attend. Then I remembered I had milk warming on the stove. Old school. bun microwaves.
I met the milk slightly overheated. The creepy white skin developed on the sides of the pot when the bubbles settled. What do they call that? Lactodern, answers Wikipedia. I am not writing now, I am eating warm porridge. The washing machine taps it's feet and turns its stomach. Thank god for washing machines. Thank god they get so much done for us and display all the giddy hallmarks of having a great time doint it. Then I wonder about the creators of the machine and their philosophy on work ethic. Then I wonder on the philosophy god had when creating such an orbital universe. Then I wonder whether we resemble god in any way. Are we god's eyelids or strand of hair? Are we just mixtures of rock and ice in his churning stomach? Do we exist in god's stomach?
The washing machine's spin has all my attention now. Inside, there is a little nick of rubber missing at the bottom of the protective door frame. This has caused water to drip from beneath the closed face. I watch as a thread of grey water slides down and into a tin which I have placed beneath the washing machine to contain the spill.
My gaze becomes sinister and turns to the top of the trembling machine where two standing vitamin bottles and a shower jell bottle wrestle gravity to remain upright. The tremble takes them closer to the edge. The two vitamin bottles fall – and deservedly so. The tall thin shower jell bottle has survived and to my surprise remains upright. There is less than a minute on the timer, the machine's turn is now slow drawn. The clothes lean on the glass door like young children long weary from the fun of rough play. I look to the table which is to my right and for a second it taps it's feet as if it were standing on top of a washing machine. Then I find the mirror and catch my torso slumping saggy against the pull of the open notebook, weary from the endless cycle of rough play.