Inside

Huddling, enveloped in my caterpillar sleeping bag, cocooned from the icy air, from the unseen forces of the callous night, I sink deeper into the recesses of the fluffy bag—my armour, my shell. I am alone with my thoughts—ideas crashing into one another in the confined space; jumbled; disorderly; images swirling past as if carried by ocean currents: his handsome face, the tranquil summerhouse, taking shelter from the sudden storm; our circle of friends and the comfort of their joy and warmth radiating through their eyes and mouths in smiles and laughter. But then the apple is split—its core laid bare, the seeds dashed out—vulnerable and exposed—the champagne bottle, fizzing with promise of celebration—then deflated, flat—Jonah swallowed by the Whale.
The sound of a digger sneaks into my ears; consciousness intrudes upon my mental ramblings. The outside penetrates the tent, the sleeping bag, my armour, my thoughts.

The copyright of this post belongs to Monica Jenkins