5:30pm.
Sunrays are slowly dying in Caroline’s fifth floor flat.
Through her old fashioned non-closing-anymore window the sky looks the same as it’s been for the last month.
A light fog is embracing roofs and streets. It seems like a gianormus piece of tracing paper covers the city. This light grey is taking everything over. The whole city is dressed up like a sad little bride who had been left over in front of the city hall. Not only buildings and frontages look washed out but also flowers and pigeons. She feels like grey. Her mind is faded; food and drinks taste the same. She’s breathing eating thinking and living everyday the same non tasty day.
6 pm. Another grey day ends.
She lays down on her empty double bed. She can hear the crackling sound her new electric heaters make. A light but not delightful smell of squash is still floating in the air. None of her two tables have free space; unread books and blacken papers cover them.
The ground is full of shoes and dirty cloths. The tiny trash can is filled with paper: in it the five plastic packs of a cookie box she’s just eaten in one shot: her last Thursday crisis.
6:30pm
The bright white walls of the bedroom are now reflecting the city’s night lights. Feet resting on the wall the head turned towards her fuckin’ non-closing-anymore window, she stares at the view.
As the microwave rings, one of her eyebrow moves up and I can read on her face “too lazy. Not now”.
Frank is now singing for her I’ve got you under my skin and as a fly just moves around her face she slaps herself so hard that the whistling stays in her ears for a good minute.
7pm.
The wall paper starts tickling her toes, then its starts peeling off. The concrete is now showing up.
Grey again.
Behind the wallpaper some deep black sentences appear one after another. They show up and then disappear. They come and go faster and faster and start now to describe a big growing scrabble.
It’s not waiting for the wallpaper to peel off. The scrabble is eating the room, covering the side table the desk her dresser.
Now Frank has a weird and well known voice but not his. He’s singing on chain of fool. “What do you want to do when you’ll be older dear?-I will study I will succeed I will get a good job I will earn money I will get a nice house I will have a big car I will have a Labrador I will have a beautiful wife and some cute kids I will look fancy in my nice suit I will go to the beach for vacation I will have this beautiful smile on my face, the one they have on this nice picture I will fit I will fit I will fit I will fit I will fit I will fit I will fit I will fit I wiiiiiiill. I do have to fit. I should fit. I need to fit.”
She feels like hell and Frank can’t shut up his mouth.
7:30pm.
The scrabble stopped moving, it starts fading now.
She’s thinking about her pens which just called minutes ago.
Jeepers Creepers is echoing in the flat.
The music is bouncing on the walls.
She closes her eyes mumuming her favourite song.
She has left the place. She’s flying away the greyness.
Colours are back.
Bourbon street. 10 pm right in the middle of the French quarter.
In front of her an orchestra.
A sweet taste of white wine in her mouth, old grandmas and grandpas are sitting around in the small bar.
Everybody is clapping in their hand.
Her heart is vibrating on rhythm with the piano.
Suddendly
(Sure, it was too beautiful to last for ever!)
It’s Louis’ turn now to annoy her.
“You gotta work baby” he’s now singing.
All the oldies are now staring at her.
Music stopped.
She feels like an unwelcome stranger in the room.
Bitterness on her tongue.
She opens her eyes on her desk, crying for her to come and sit down.
Second move of eyebrow, I see this desperate look of the grey day rancor.
“Even when I dream it’s not peaceful.”
Shiver.
It took her from the right bottom of her neck shaking up her head in a weird way.
Even if she feels like the fog entered her soul. Even if her head is as empty as her life and her fridge, she feels like an anchor stick deep down in the ocean.
She can’t move.
Nothing.
There is no desire in her to move.
Nothing really matters to her. She feels alone up high in her fifth floor perch.
Part of herself keeps telling her “you have to move and react. you have to work before it’s too late”.
Even though she keeps screaming in a sigh when she’s telling to herself “you should have” or “if only” there’s no motion.
8 pm.
Another song begins.
Nina and her feeling good is back on tracks.
First musical notes.
She throws her “fleurs du mal” at the computer.
Looking back at the cracked ceiling.
8:30 pm.
What is this whole WORK thing about? Why should I have a career? What if I make the Wrong choice? Why can’t I just travel discovering the World? What is a good life? Why do we have to have a good job? Why do we need to earn money? We spend our life Working and so how can I be sure that I chose THE good one? What if I choose not to work? What if I just Want to party and travel, read and Watch movies? What is Work? Can we get pleasure from working?
A car’s screech.
The vegetables are burned.
