I sit uneasy at the kitchen table. While nothing was out of place, that is exactly the problem here. I’m not going through all the trouble of cleaning when the dirty dishes rush back in the sink. The washbasin, a peripheral madness that draws clutter.
But still, I imagine footsteps. The girl and the invisible door are at play here. She comes from the chamber of proverbial oddities. I have been there. And truly owe several complocations in my life.
Namely the other me. This is where the cleaning comes from. Its like a demented twin. Everything I leave in my preferred state of chaos is ruined and organized. I find the extra work of searching for any item in place doubles the wasted time organizing it.
I use the corner of my eye to play a twisted game of mental tag. I like to refer to it as the needle in the dragon’s eye. I’m just as likely to win as stabbing said dragon. The other me refers to it as the pariah and the marionette, the strings I only feel from tune to time.
So I nurse my coffee. My mind is engaged in the intimate departure of logic. Maybe the gravedigger’s maze is more accurate. The daylight has parted awhile back. I resist the dream connoisseur with more confessions from bedlam.
I’m drawn to the chair next to me sliding out. I see his face… rather my own. A waking nightmare continues.