It is late. The point had fled, but he was determined to catch it this time.
There are too many tips available. So he went back to something basic- write what you know. Select.
Pick a colour. Ok, red. It doesn’t matter that you chose red. But I bet you are curious as to what I chose last time.
I chose green. I wanted a light colour, one to remember and contrast with at a later date, just to remind me that I have changed. Green is alive. Red works ok too, red is the colour of blood. So red.
The sample is binned. Yellow for hazardous waste. They always remark how aware I am when I’m low. Perhaps it’s because rather than remark- which is casual, the lateness makes me impatient. I need to live, so I record. I don’t remark. Yet.
I smell the food and wait. Because it is late. And there are visitors. To remark reflects on swimmers in dark waters. But to wait and record is the living impulse in me, just as preparation for after is the impulse for my handlers.
The wait makes me aware of more sounds. The scraping of a pan, the trained erratic buzz of a flying insect. A window opens and I hear birds, chimes. Soon the door will creak and I will be on edge again. The wind is shaking the leaves and the metallic clink means someone has finally met their match and bested it.
The afternoon is bright, colourful and sumptuous. I’m back in the present. Only for me, it is late.