Thursday Morning

Thursday.
I awoke at six-thirty to a blurry world and the dull sensation of a full bladder. Heading at once to the bathroom, I emptied it over the course of at least two minutes and then thoroughly washed my hands.

Upon returning to the King’s chamber, I slid back the blinds—instead of beneath the covers—and opened a window in order to survey my kingdom: green grass, tired-faced and well-meaning mother (and neighbor) picking at juvenile son’s ugly shirt. Azure sky untainted with fluff or cloud, hot sun, faint scent of seaweed, cool breeze.

“Is it possible you have kidney stones? Best detoxing is a fruit & veggie detox—only eat fruits and veggies for a day or two … And drink tons of water. Just make sure you also get some salt in your diet … If tests say normal I doubt it. Could be a food allergy. Try detoxing for a few days and see what happens.” – Cameron Chapman

Detoxification? My bloodstream is filled with the ugly aftertaste of a daily regimen of medication, as prescribed by either myself or my doctor. The anti-depressants do nothing to relieve depression, but actually encourage it, and therefore are left outside of my body—what more misery could I possibly wish for? Liver and kidney detoxification will be researched when there’s more time. But, well, without a dialysis machine on hand it’ll likely just involve eating vitamin-rich fruits and vegetables, whilst guzzling as much water as I can.

Anyway, I feel less sore about yesterday’s argument. Whether this is due to the 50mg of diazepam or not, I am unsure. I am no physician. I feel forgiving of Hannah, guilty and embarrassed at my own behaviour. James does not want her back, but he wants her back: the tigress.

Sweating at the train station, I attempted to amuse myself with the day’s headlines and nothing caught my eye. The breeze did not occur often enough to wash away the layers of sweat heaped upon my skin, much like a second skin, by the burning sun. Sky still azure, no scent of seaweed: just a longing for one’s troubles to be pulled away with a passing train.

James boards the train and feels his reigning misanthropy burning as a glance takes in the livestock. Oh, why can’t I have a seat to myself, I wonder, inwardly. The thought is soon lost as my ongoing inner monologue continues and I pull out a pad of paper, a pen and an idea for something to write about.

I sigh. Out loud. If I am to accomplish any piece of writing that bares any resemblance to the truth, I will require time alone in the locations my stories take place. When education is finally done (education is never done) I shall be free to dispense my savings into the hands of travel agents, who’ll organize my nomadic itinerary. The concept of “home” will vanish, its denotation mutating into “the bed for tonight” and I will be, ladies and gentlemen, a traveller once more! Amsterdam is first on my list, for ‘tis one of my favourite cities, not least for its deceptive hype; not in any way a heaven of hedonism (a title that belongs to France), the culture is one of drinking, smoking and otherwise ‘drugging’ oneself into a stupor and spending a few Euro notes upon a prostitute, her skin tainted pink by the red-light hanging from the ceiling of every room along a cobbled corridor of pimps and paid-for-sex.

I shall not get into the after-dark army of hooded negroes offering dirt-coloured bags of crystallized benzoylmethylecgonine hydrochloride—we all know it as ‘Cocaine’, but NaHCO3 (‘Bicarbonate of Soda’) is what you get—or the spiral-shaped public toilets, or the smell of the canals or the Dutchmen in top-hats who look like they are bound by some extraordinary sense of justice to murder prostitutes in the shadowed nooks and hiding places of the Red Light District.

I will not even begin to speak about the fog that is not fog at all, but a blanket of old cannabis smoke, for these are for another time.

I’ve yet to even cover the day!

Thursday.

I awoke at six-thirty to a blurry world and the dull sensation of a full bladder. Heading at once to the bathroom, I emptied it over the course of at least two minutes and then thoroughly washed my hands.

Upon returning to the King’s chamber, I slid back the blinds—instead of beneath the covers—and opened a window in order to survey my kingdom: green grass, well-meaning mother picking at juvenile son’s ugly shirt, azure sky, hot sun, faint scent of seaweed, cool breeze.

“Is it possible you have kidney stones? Best detoxing is a fruit & veggie detox—only eat fruits and veggies for a day or two … And drink tons of water. Just make sure you also get some salt in your diet … If tests say normal I doubt it. Could be a food allergy. Try detoxing for a few days and see what happens.” – Cameron Chapman

Detoxification? My bloodstream is filled with the ugly aftertaste of a daily regimen of medication, as prescribed by either myself or my doctor. The anti-depressants do nothing to relieve depression, but actually encourage it, and therefore are left outside of my body—what more misery could I possibly wish for? Liver and kidney detoxification will be researched when there’s more time. But, well, without a dialysis machine on hand it’ll likely just involve eating vitamin-rich fruits and vegetables, whilst guzzling as much water as I can.

Anyway, I feel less sore about yesterday’s argument. Whether this is due to the 50mg of diazepam or not, I am unsure. I am no physician. I feel forgiving of Hannah, guilty and embarrassed at my own behaviour. James does not want her back, but he wants her back: the tigress.

Sweating at the train station, I attempted to amuse myself with the day’s headlines and nothing caught my eye. The breeze did not occur often enough to wash away the layers of sweat heaped upon my skin, much like a second skin, by the burning sun. Sky still azure, no scent of seaweed: just a longing for one’s troubles to be pulled away with a passing train.

James boards the train and feels his reigning misogyny burning as a glance takes in the livestock. Oh, why can’t I have a seat to myself, I wonder, inwardly. The thought is soon lost as my ongoing inner monologue continues and I pull out a pad of paper, a pen and an idea for something to write about.

I sigh. Out loud. If I am to accomplish any piece of writing that bares any resemblance to the truth, I will require time alone in the locations my stories take place. When education is finally done (education is never done) I shall be free to dispense my savings into the hands of travel agents, who’ll organize my nomadic itinerary. The concept of “home” will vanish, its denotation mutating into “the bed for tonight” and I will be, ladies and gentlemen, a traveller once more! Amsterdam is first on my list, for ‘tis one of my favourite cities, not least for its deceptive hype; not in any way a heaven of hedonism, the culture is one of drinking, smoking and otherwise ‘drugging’ oneself into a stupor and spending a few Euro on a prostitute, her skin tainted pink by the red-light hanging from the ceiling of every room along a cobbled corridor of pimps and paid-for-sex.

I shall not get into the dark army of hooded negroes offering dirty-coloured bags of crystallized benzoylmethylecgonine hydrochloride—we all know it as ‘Cocaine’, but NaHCO3 (‘Bicarbonate of Soda’) is what you get— or the spiral-shaped public toilets, or the smell of the canals or the Dutchmen in top-hats who look like they are bound by some extraordinary sense of justice to murder prostitutes in the shadowed nooks and hiding places of the Red Light District. I will not even begin to speak about the fog that is not fog at all, but a blanket of old cannabis smoke, for these are for another time.

I’ve yet to even cover the day!