Oh, beast of burden, carry me

My eyes drift open, drift slowly to the left, drift into the grey sky. My body feels just as leaden, yet I am sucked in by the showers. Such a wel­come sight. Oh, I wish I could. How I truly wish I could.

Back centre. There’s a beast of bur­den dent­ing the smooth cov­ers at the end of my bed, watch­ing me. Warn­ing me. I can’t kick it off, though I try and I try. It gives me its know­ing stare, the one that instils fear. Rigid fear about the smal­lest, most incon­sequen­tial sounds, vis­ions and sen­sa­tions. When did I start dread­ing the open­ing of a plain, unre­mark­able door to step into daylight?

The beast of bur­den offers me its back, an easy way out for the cow­ard I can so eas­ily be. I launch myself at its neck to strangle, but it’s all over bar the dust and particles before I even have the chance to push my thumbs tightly together. For which, in truth, I’m grateful.

This early morn­ing vis­it­a­tion over, I soak up a few pre­cious minutes. I pull the cov­ers up and into a neat, pre­cise line below my lashes, blink­ing a single salty rain­drop trail into cheap and taw­dry cot­ton, and curse the fact that mere phys­ic­al­ity has made me hate this weather. I can’t even see the wet trails on the win­dow, yet I know what’s there, out­side. I close my eyes, too scared to shiver as I am sprayed by the sound of the water slip­ping damp and puddled under the car tyres tak­ing the bleary and the blank due north to their jobs in the City.

I con­jure up the beast of bur­den once more. Its know­ing stare returns, more dis­par­aging than before now that the creature has me where it wants me. I give in, and whis­per to it to help me rise, beseech it to guide me over the soaked stones. Pave my way, please. It agrees. It can’t do any­thing else but agree, because for these moments I am not my own per­son, just a bundle to be trans­por­ted. The animal will do its duty without com­plaint, con­tent merely to inhale the sick­en­ing scent of vic­tory in its nostrils.

Comments: 8

    Again a poignant peek, and I think I know what if feels like. I don’t like it. It scares me. I turn away. It’s awful. And too good.

    clarissa | 08.14.07, 10:06

    If god had wanted us to leave the house in rainy weather, god wouldn’t have inven­ted warm beds. If god had wanted us to leave the house at all, god wouldn’t have inven­ted rain. If god had wanted us to work, god wouldn’t have inven­ted houses to leave.

    But on any other day, rain can be very very cleansing.

    I also invent god as an excuse for not doing things.

    ben | 08.14.07, 12:52

    Some­times we just have to accept the help that’s avail­able, even in the most seem­ingly unpal­at­able forms. You are no cow­ard, Mr. Witness.

    I’m going back to bed now. It’s over­cast here, and things seem to hang so heav­ily when the sky is this leaden.

    bohémienne | 08.14.07, 13:15

    One who can write so boldly, with such sear­ing hon­esty and pin­point accur­acy of all that embod­ies life, from the bloody awful to the bloody bril­liant and all the infin­ite lay­ers in between .… is cer­tainly no coward.

    www.akiterises.blogspot.com | 08.14.07, 19:36

    … although if you don’t try to get your­self pub­lished some­where away from here mr uw, sir, I will indeed call you a cow­ard to your very, er, blogface

    xx

    Peach | 08.14.07, 21:50

    Clarissa — Ah, the awful and good conun­drum. I know it well. All the awful things are good, and vice versa.

    Ben — Strangely enough, as I lay there this morn­ing, I tried to call God. But She was out. She did, how­ever, call me back later. Appar­ently, you her a prayer or two to tell Her how you’re get­ting on with your list of things to do.

    Bohémi­enne — Okay. I am no cow­ard. I’m not going to dis­agree with you. After all, I’m a cow­ard. Erm.

    aki­ter­ises — Thank you for your bloody decent com­ment. And no, I am not a coward.

    Peach — I am now avail­able on a vari­ety of good walls. So I am still a bit of a coward.

    [If any­body has any idea whether I’m a cow­ard, not a cow­ard, or indeed, whether I’m just Noel Cow­ard, do please let me know. Thank you.]

    An Unreliable Witness | 08.14.07, 22:09

    a cow­ard in one sense may not own the use of such words and place them one after the other, with such grace. a cow­ard may also not revel in the art of doing so.

    Miles Away | 08.16.07, 10:35

    Miles Away — I like your think­ing. Plus, the Cow­ardly Lion was quite the best char­ac­ter in The Wiz­ard of Oz.

    An Unreliable Witness | 08.16.07, 12:00

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