The day after
Everything is now so mediocre
Yesterday was post #87; today, #88. #87 was the day after #86, and today, #88 will be the day after #87. Which means the day after is always the day after. Confirmed.
My mornings are mindlessly predictable. A gradual emergence from forced slumber regulated by the Melbourne train running between South Geelong and Geelong stations. No need for a clock. The first one I hear is just after 5am, thereafter at 20-minute intervals. A standard Australian train approaching a level crossing emits two long blasts, one short, one long. Reassuring. Three trains equals an hour of snooze time. I block out the inbound ones.
I really don't want to walk to the bathroom. Five trains might be a personal best in toilet avoidance. Before I do, the pattern is inevitable—a short curl-up to warm exposed feet, two side-tosses, the sinker, a stare left in hope. And then a fixation on the perfume bottle that remains a lone token of what used to be.
I want to bury the perfume. But it was oh so expensive. We had such wasteful tendencies. “Just bury the fucking perfume.” The forced metaphors of fallen relationships. The bedroom is now so mediocre.
Flush the yellow. The day has started.
I need to get to places where I should be. The Kitchen. Hopefully not enough rain to flood the floor—didn't put the buckets out. Where's the phone? Doesn't matter. The kettle is more important. Hot tea, milk, sugar. What's better? When someone else makes it.
Where do you go for news? I'm still drawn to Twitter/X but finding what you need is a shit-show. TV is an option, but I don't want the YT rabbit hole, and the ABC hosts make me want to go back to bed. I don't hear the trains now.
Fuck it. Just go to the shower. Whoever fitted the bathroom window must have come straight from happy hour. Summer affords a cooling breeze; winter, it’s just plain frigid. The water's warm but you have to run around to get wet. It's a train-wreck.
Maybe this is my solace. After the chaos, I get to sit and write whatever the fuck comes into my head.
This morning it was meant to be another play on numbers. Instead—morning routines and emotional honesty.
That’ll do ‘til the day after today, when we’ll do it all again.
Nick
Ps. Sorry if I started you on the wrong foot; don’t mind me, have a great Friday.
