Creative Writing


Today, as usual, not a single alarm went off successfully and my half-dead body… Well, strange to say “half-dead” when it is kind of dead already? Or at least I feel it this way.

But anyway, my body, this awkward casket that limits you and me today, tomorrow and, well, forever, this casket suddenly felt higher than usual atmospheric pressure on it. That was Tommy, I managed to figure this out by the smell of lemons coming from him. Tom was the only person that fought hangovers with lemons out of three of us living in this house. And that was the moment I realised how hangover myself I was.

He literary dragged me out of my bed, while continuously hitting me with his already empty glass. For a moment I understood why he liked this strange remedy. And I wanted to cover my entire body with lemons, become a lemon and live amongst lemons forever.

Tommy hit me again, this time aiming at my shoulder:

- Man, you have to wake up - he said to me - or we will miss the lecture again.

I sat, stretched, scratched my head and started recalling memories from yesterday while struggling to remember what the hell was that lecture going to be about.

- Now, are you awake? - hopefully asked Tommy.

- Yes, yes.. Go ahead guys, and I’ll join you later at the Stadium itself - I replied and dragged the blanket from the bed in order to wrap my dead casket into it.

I still craved lemons, and that felt surprisingly usual.

An hour later I found misery and myself at the auditorium and there was this little squarish man, telling us how we can change the world by speaking up and volunteering. By being critical and strong independent personas in the field of art. I found it funny, as memories of yesterday came back to me, where I was stitching pieces of cat shit together as a “critical illustration of today’s politics”. Wonder, if our cats know that their naive piles were influencing human world that much. But if they knew - I doubt that they would really care.

My installation wouldn’t change anything. It was locked in the studio, the way we are all locked in the caskets of ours. No-one could see it. No-one could hear or reflect upon it. But would it change something if I became loud? How loud? How pompous? Loud for whom?

I sipped from my glass and silenced myself for a moment to enjoy the sour taste on my tongue. Then I wanted to continue, but suddenly felt so numb, as if my casket was made of rubber and came back to right mind only when I saw Tommy making weird faces at the first raw. I looked up. Students were looking at me with curiosity, and I started hearing subtle whispering in the space.

I started thinking about my cats again and looked back at my squarish fingers holding a glass with lemon water. Suddenly I whispered through the mic - “Speak up” and left the auditorium, leaving students to wander if everything was ok. Everything was. O.K.

I just wanted to go back to the studio, find my old cat shit work and see - if anything really changed when I spoke up.