A grim portrait

I remained in a sped-up frame of mind for longer than I wanted, I couldn’t eject myself from it for ages. One evening, rushing across the mirror I decided to slow – to get a strong look at myself, following a sweaty day toiling amid the crowd-lands with minimal fresh air. Firstly, I glanced at my still-on name badge, my identifier backwards. I’d worn it all the way back. I was drained, and a look into my dark eyes and sooty face confirmed it. A grim portrait. Even after just a tiny time period, it appeared the tort electricity – along with the grime and tar – had penetrated any small cracks in my skin, and was apparent there in the naked lines, the stark creases.

I knew that the sense of perverse glee I gained from the almost constant ‘happy’ exhaustion would have to reduce at some point, but I couldn’t feel any drop yet. It came from a routine that seemed to stretch into the darkest recesses of my imagination, even though it spanned only a few days.

I didn’t care what time I was getting back, and I was contented with the day, with what I achieved, and I felt a real spirit glow from my work. A universal kind of joy. The shards of conversation reverberated into the mild night air, unfamiliar tones at once known, all interchanging and clattering, eventually offering up a ragged, lightly shocking collage of floaty mirages, recurring images and snippets from the day, now drifting away.

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