MORNING
The dead-awakening sound of the alarm clock tells me it is morning again. I wash up and prepare breakfast for my husband and my children. I wish them a nice day as they rush out the door. I sit at the dining table breathing burned toast, dishes waiting to be cleared away. I am a prisoner, locked up in the cage of my own mind.
My cage is a labyrinth with endless passages rather than the familiar structure with strong metal bars and a lock. It is dark inside the cage, but a lot is going on inside all the same. Lights flash and pulsate through sinewy meshes, chemistry in full motion, resulting in the alchemy of thoughts.
My thoughts are like a frightened bird slamming its frail shape against the bars of a cage, its feathers scattering. There is ringing in my ears. I breath deep and try to take control of my racing mind. Everything is really ok, I tell myself. Your life is quite nice, I continue. Nothing to worry about, I reassure. What more do you want, I demand. I want to be free, I whisper.
An image is projected on the wall of my cage.
I am in an ancient library. The dimness is thick, musty. Heavy wooden shelves climbing up to the ceiling. Thousands of books, millions of words. I am the librarian standing on top of a tall ladder. I have read all the books and know where to place them. I also know there is one special book which I have not yet found.
I climb a little higher. I discover a secret door. I walk out the door.
Clear blue skies and sandy beaches. Gentle waves licking the shore. A light breeze blowing, spraying the air with a salty perfume. Serenity all around. I am walking barefoot on the warm sand, holding a straw hat in my hand. I am climbing the gentle slope to the beach house. Turquoise wine glasses waiting on the table. A colourful bowl filled with fragrant fruit. White paper lanterns swaying. The sun is about to take its last dip of the day in the sea. I sit down. I pour wine into a glass. Take a sip. Lean back and close my eyes.
A screech is clutching at my drowsy senses. I open my eyes. I am in a taxi wriggling its way in dense traffic. I must have dozed off after walking tirelessly around town, looking for the perfect gift, breezing in and out of little shops, lovingly caressing endless possible choices.
Strolling through the town’s courtly squares, my steps are weightless. Silky pink ribbons flow in my veins, fluffy tunes play themselves in my head. I pause on a bench with a delicious Creme de Marron crepe melting in my hand. I breathe contentment. I am in heaven.
Then, I buy a book with beautifully intriguing illustrations. I can almost hear the colours singing. A perfect ending for a perfect morning.
The taxi stops in front of the towering building.
Stepping into the elevator’s narrow cage, I press the top button. In the room, I fall into the brocade armchair.
I am tired. Breakfast dishes in the sink waiting impatiently to be cleared away. But I can’t resist leafing through the book that I just bought.
The book tells a story about a woman looking for happiness.
* Romit Berger says “I am a graphic designer and artist, living in Prague for the past ten years. In 2008 I joined a writing group – English is not my native language but I graduated from an international school, so it is a part of my life ever since. I feel that the dual process of finding words to describe mind images and illustrating written words, opens a new exciting dimension of creativity for me. My work can be seen on www.romitcom.com