Things used to be different. You used to be different. You remember walking in the field behind your parents’ house, following Sally and being followed by little Richard. The long golden grass would brush up against your legs. The sun would bless your face, baptise you in golden light. The strong scents of heather in the field would remind you of the floral soap your mother bathed you with as a little girl, soft water and soft hands, warm and peaceful.
But things have changed. You find it hard to believe, even now, that you will be stuck in this tiny, drab room for another four and a half years. Time stretches out in front of you, endless. You’re lying in bed, looking up at the ceiling. Grey bed, grey walls. Grey view outside the grey window. The ceiling is papered with an odd sort of wallpaper that must have been fashionable at some point, dotted with woodchips. You think about each little woodchip, stuck there in the wall like flies in a web and wonder what it might be like for them. The swell of voices in the hallways gets fainter and fainter, and then fades entirely. You think you know.
just another starving artist.