Rinse and Repeat
Samuel Indermaur
I write this in the middle of the night.
Bitter because I haven’t found the words, I scribble down loose ideas. Too embarrassed by my creative paucity, I shut my eyes. I rinse away the shame with sleep.
Car alarms wake me at 7.
Snooze.
Car alarms wake me at 7:09.
I rise, feverish. Irritated by my self-indulgent setback, I cross off ‘wake-up’ from my list of daily to-dos. The litany of reasons to go back to bed unfurls past the page’s margins.
I rise, resentful. Rinsing the drowsiness away with an overpriced latte and 36 milligrams of a focus potion, I mechanize to complete my tasks.
The day is like any other: indistinguishable in its demands.
Exercise, shower, dress, eat, walk, smile, wave, sit, note-take, walk, work, eat, wander, study, rinse dirty dishes, write, sleep.
Frivolous conversations pulled from a grab bag of vacuous questions: do you like this weather? where’d you get your sweater? what’s your plan for the weekend? what’s your plan for post-grad? and while we’re at it, what’s your plan for life? what’ll your epitaph say?
You rinse away the uncertainty with platitudes: I’ll cross that bridge when I get there.
When will you get there?
Repeat
I write this in the middle of the night.
Bitter because I haven’t envisaged the story’s end, I latch the cover of my journal. Too embarrassed by my creative paucity, I shut my eyes. I rinse away the shame with sleep.
Sunshine illuminates my curtains.
Roll over.
Sunshine illuminates my bedroom.
I rise, listless. The instruction manual for the hours of daylight writes itself anew.
Rinsing the agitation with acceptance, I automatize to finish my chores.
Lazy Sunday to laborious sundown.
Rinse dishes, empty the garbage, restock the refrigerator.
Time-consuming drudgery is rife with tranquility.
I find myself unfettered by the circular routine.
There is utility in futility.
So I
Rinse and empty and restock and
Repeat
I write this in the middle of the night.
Bitter because I haven’t constructed an escape,
I inse off the day and repeat myself to sleep.
I write this in the middle of the night.
Bitter because I haven’t found the words, I scribble down loose ideas. Too embarrassed by my creative paucity, I shut my eyes. I rinse away the shame with sleep.
Car alarms wake me at 7.
Snooze.
Car alarms wake me at 7:09.
I rise, feverish. Irritated by my self-indulgent setback, I cross off ‘wake-up’ from my list of daily to-dos. The litany of reasons to go back to bed unfurls past the page’s margins.
I rise, resentful. Rinsing the drowsiness away with an overpriced latte and 36 milligrams of a focus potion, I mechanize to complete my tasks.
The day is like any other: indistinguishable in its demands.
Exercise, shower, dress, eat, walk, smile, wave, sit, note-take, walk, work, eat, wander, study, rinse dirty dishes, write, sleep.
Frivolous conversations pulled from a grab bag of vacuous questions: do you like this weather? where’d you get your sweater? what’s your plan for the weekend? what’s your plan for post-grad? and while we’re at it, what’s your plan for life? what’ll your epitaph say?
You rinse away the uncertainty with platitudes: I’ll cross that bridge when I get there.
When will you get there?
Repeat
I write this in the middle of the night.
Bitter because I haven’t envisaged the story’s end, I latch the cover of my journal. Too embarrassed by my creative paucity, I shut my eyes. I rinse away the shame with sleep.
Sunshine illuminates my curtains.
Roll over.
Sunshine illuminates my bedroom.
I rise, listless. The instruction manual for the hours of daylight writes itself anew.
Rinsing the agitation with acceptance, I automatize to finish my chores.
Lazy Sunday to laborious sundown.
Rinse dishes, empty the garbage, restock the refrigerator.
Time-consuming drudgery is rife with tranquility.
I find myself unfettered by the circular routine.
There is utility in futility.
So I
Rinse and empty and restock and
Repeat
I write this in the middle of the night.
Bitter because I haven’t constructed an escape,
I inse off the day and repeat myself to sleep.