I'd never sat still for so long. It had always struck me as unproductive and lazy, and that would permeate my thoughts with a sense of time wasted, existence literally draining away; of things being undone and things being unseen and unlived. I made to-do lists on a daily basis and would find myself lost and aimless once I'd crossed all the items off. But this time I had license to do nothing, recovering from an operation. Take it all as part of the experience.
For the first day as the anaesthetic wore off I seemed to be growing quite fond of watching TV. For maybe the first time I didn't feel guilty about wasting my time. It was at around the 72-hour mark when a flash of genius came to me; that I'd stay put for 168-hours, one whole week. That was the target, and I didn't know I could even achieve it, having itchy feet and a vagabondish tendency that had been a blessing and a curse for my adult life so far. I find it hard to sit still, there's that certain something forever stirring. But I am an achiever and once I've got a scheme in mind, I'll follow it all the way through.
Once I did leave the house it was the little things that came right to the fore. The breeze that blows natural and washes across your bare arms, the sunlight burning the retinas, the rumble of the double-deckers buses rattling by and the noise of life fumbling all around. Such a simple thing as walking along to the shop became a big event and felt like so, or moreso. I'd wanted nothing to do with the outside world during my self-imposed exile, going so far as to keep the curtains drawn at all times, and I hadn't given a second thought to what was going on out there at all. Why bother? It became me versus them; me in my ivory tower relaxing, catching up on TV and having a wail of a time as friends stopped in to say hello and wish well; and them, rushing and crushed by the bustling of the street and the noise. My world, and the rest of the world. Just the sound of it all I wanted to avoid. I worried it'd drive me mad, and more mad than spending 168 straight hours on the soft red sofa.
I like soft fabric sofas but that sagging sofa sagged more. The level of comfort was off the chart. I settled down into it and the sides came up around me. Like a birth in reverse with fabric. My eyes burnt out from the combination of screen and white paper anyway. The sounds from the town centre streets were unavoidable. The smell of alcohol crept off the night people and up into the windows along with their incessant drunk bullshit talk of meaninglessness. Only the red cushions to comfort me for long stretches of time, no women coming by or much conversation with working housemates. The giant factory-floor clock behind the sofa loud, but louder and louder on silent Sundays at 3am. It provided the heartbeat I never felt...
Hours stacked upon hours. The screen fizzled and buzzed and so did I. My mind and the TV became one, and we shared our knowledge. I pointed and shouted when the time came. Cabin fever crept up like ivy and it all seemed so impossible. I was compelled to move, but didn't, and then it got easier then from there. I found a second wind, much stronger than the first, and faced forward. Once the thought had passed through my mind it disappeared on the other side, as a car passing by and sliding away in the rear view mirror would. And going downhill with no accelerator, but a clear view all the way to the 168 mark. An open road.
