Thursday, 17 April 2008
[reposted from Chicken and Pies by Socrates Adams-Florou:]
I am wiped out and tired. It has been one of those long days at home that I hate. There has been raining and sleeting. The patterns are squashed against my windows. One of those long days at home and alone that I hate. There is very little light now in my flat; my sofa feels dull, it supports my wait. There is no sound in my flat. I am feeling just awful. My nose is running. I hear a noise that sounds like a scratching. In the corner of my floor there is a black garden beetle. Why is it in my flat? My flat is on the sixth floor of a building. There are no gardens anywhere near my flat. The beetle is very big for a beetle, I have never seen a beetle as big as this beetle. Its back is shining. I feel as though the beetle is going to start speaking to me any second. One second later the beetle starts to speak to me. It has a high pitched voice and is terrifying. It says, "You are boring. Why are you so boring, little man? You have never done anything that is worthwhile. You are a lazy and fat little man of no worth." The beetle is right. That is one clever beetle. "You don't have any hope. I hate you little man. Nothing you do has ever been good. Why don't you say something back to me little man?" The beetle's words are seriously hurting my feelings. I feel animosity towards the beetle. I look at the window and the rain, and the grey light. "Waster. You are a waster." I tread on the beetle and sit back down.