Image by Christine Renney
I lay back on the unmade bed and stare up at the ceiling. I trace patterns in the damp, find faces in the decay. Alien and immobile they stare back.
I have lost track of time and am unsure how long I have been here in this room. How many days have I managed to lose, writhing on the thin white sheet, trying and failing to grip the mattress beneath.
My mind is a cavernous blur and in my listlessness I have left no markers. I haven’t been reading and can’t add up the pages or count the stories.
I realise I am hungry, painfully so. I push myself up and, twisting around, I sit on the edge of the bed. I place my feet on the ground and clutching my stomach I gaze down at the carpet. But it is a good thing – this wanting, a need for something other than alcohol. But have I been here too long, for longer than I can afford?
And what will I do if and when my credit card fails.
hijacked amygdala 
Like an obtuse view of cold-turkey, and then, with your closing, something else: a man attempting escape, perhaps. As intriguing as ever, Mark.
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Thank you Chris.
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Uhhh depressing, perfect description of that feeling if lost …
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Thank you.
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Beautiful Mark. I loved your descriptions of the images in the ceiling. You describe a hangover so beautifully, and thoughts floating in the mind. Love your work!
p.s. haven’t been receiving notices glitches I suppose
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Thank you so much.
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This is so perfect: “My mind is a cavernous blur and in my listlessness I have left no markers.” Wonderful. Great image.
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Thank you so much Pam.
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The aching simple simplicity of being lost is so palpable it’s addictive.
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