A blistered boiled egg, and two slices of toast. This is how it begins, every morning. It is how it shall continue, every morning. Put a fresh bowl of water out for the dog, reapply lipstick and double lock the front door. Get on the tube, and stare at the yellow line, rushing out of sight.
You channel, tunnel yourself into the destructive abyss. If nothing matters, why should you care? You throw yourself, your whole self, into quick-fix distractions. Huffing lines of brunch dates and work projects. Tap the credit card on the counter: beep, beep. Don’t ever make eye contact with the cashier, or you’ll start feeling bad.
You stare down at the coffee; stirring, stirring it with a silver teaspoon. Stirring, stirring the soya milk. Your coworker will ask if you want sugar with that. You say no, and wonder why you’re afraid of death.
During the day, clocks are a gateway drug to your fleeting existence. Everywhere are white faces. Linear black markings of your 9am coffee and 3 o’clock meeting. All sand through the timer, when you wear your time on this earth like a PSA. Black heels for work, and a label which reads, ‘Good morning, I don’t care.’
In the evenings you crawl into bed, your weary body an aching cart. Not yours, but a contraption around you, behind you. This nihilism is a burden, and you want to smudge away into the grain of existence, beyond the time when the thought that we all amount to nothing was comforting. Beyond the view of watching your life trickle down the drain, sluggish like bleach down the plug. Beyond the nights in the blank dark in which you know you shall be snuffed out like sleep.
But deep, deep down, you do care. It is ok to care, because how else can we fill the time anyway? Splinter open the egg shell, lay the toast beside it.
– Emily Black