There are curtains….

I woke up with the sentence in my head. I was saying it in my head. There are curtains in my room and no way out. I am intrigued by the liminal space between sleep and waking. The merging of the two different existences where language is lost in translation. It sounds like a plea, a cry for help or is it more a statement of fact, a route to acceptance of what is. I dislike curtains, they make me feel trapped, too enclosed. I like to see light whenever I can.

I got so stressed. There was just too much to do and I wanted to concentrate, be in a quiet space with my writing. I became a scratchy, bit-ey creature, distinctly nasty – just as I felt inside. Poor love, he got the brunt of it. Such is love, eh? I wanted to solve it, to get to the plain sailing bit but I didn’t, there wasn’t the time. Here there and everywhere and being so cross about it. Consequently, my stomach is in knots this morning, groaning and yawling.

The morning was still as I walked, lovely. A few students roamed the Prom. One girl was in pyjamas with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. She didn’t give me eye contact. She was withdrawn, her hair in heavy strands around her face. One lad came out of the new council flats on Mill Street, swaying. He was reading his mobile phone when I walked past on the other side of the road. He must’ve spotted me for he started to shout out. Yo! Or at least that is what it sounded like. Yo! he shouted again. What do I say? I looked at him. Yo! yer fuckin’….he didn’t finish the sentence but turned and headed towards Bridge Street. I don’t think he even saw me, I was just a figure to launch aggression on. My hackles rose a little but I kept moving, walking towards home. A homeless man sat on a bench by the station, all his belongings beside him. We looked at each other. Morning, I said. Hello, he said. Climbing the little hill towards the Buarth I heard a wailing, not unlike the sound I heard yesterday. I can’t write it. It was a kind of aeeragh! In the gloom I saw a figure, he was clutching his stomach and groping at doors. Then I heard a key in a lock and he was in.

Must get on. I want to crack it. Tea then write. Onward.

By Ellen Bell

Artist and writer currently living in Aberystwyth.