Word portrait

She sits alone.

The milky light of the overcast afternoon seeps through the gaps in the blinds, lighting the dust motes as they swirl through the air.  On the coffee table sits a half-empty wine glass, granules of tannin gathering in the bowl as the tell-tale empty bottle sits with its label half-peeled off:  an afterthought, a distraction from the words floating through her mind.  The untouched congealed bowl of rice grows ever colder.

She sits alone.

The dog nudges at her thigh, insisting on a game of fetch with the mouldy rope toy.  She grabs at the rope half-heartedly, and throws it lazily through the open door.  Flies buzz outside.  The dog races to fetch it, energetically bounding and pouncing on the flaccid rope, attacking it with an enthusiasm for life akin to what the girl used to have.  The dog returns, again nuzzling her thigh and licking at her wrist before giving up and returning to its mat with a sigh.

She sits alone.

Her eyes wander.  The slight musty smell of dog mixes with tang of despair.  Half-written lists linger on benches, a pile of work beside her: pages filled with the  multi-coloured scrawls of adolescents whose dismal attempts bring a strange mixture of relief and disappointment.  The musical chirps of birds fill the air outside, contrasting with the dull silence of her mind.  Drawing all the more attention to the nothingness of life.

She gazes into nothing.  Her mind fills with thoughts of yesterday and images of its perceived future.  A longing for success, a longing for home, a longing for belonging. A wondering:  When will this endless chase towards a non-existent happiness dwindle and fade?

She sips.  Her lips purse with the bitter taste of wine and reality. An acceptance of the mundane, and expectation for failure and disillusionment.  Ancient dreams of families and satisfaction are washed away.  She mourns the loss of faith; the loss of hope.

She sits.



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