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Too Much Time MAG
There’s a certain comfort in knowing the bed you sleep in each night. You’d think after all these years I’d have grown tired of the wooden frame and the mattress that’s really too thin. And if I’m being honest, there are times I wished for a better one, but there are worse things about and I hardly have the right to complain about a bed.
Like the smell of this place. Perhaps were my family richer, these thin walls would actually be thick walls and would actually block the passing smells.
I wonder what the rest of the neighbourhood thinks of it. It’s really not a nice place and I’m sure they’ve all noticed.
The smells are worse at night. But maybe that’s just me – so little noise come nightfall that there’s zilch to distract me from all the bad here.
Again, it’s really a downer of a place. I spend most of my time feeling sorry for myself.
I mean, we all end up somewhere. Some places just better than others. And it’s really not my fault I wasn’t born into wealth and luxury. Maybe if I was, I’d be surrounded in gold, sleeping on feathery pillows each night.
There I go again with the bed. It’s just uncomfortable, you know? A little too firm. My bones ache. But, like I said, there are worse places and at least I’ll always have a place to sleep, that’s for sure. My family hasn’t much money, but they did make sure of that. That was awfully kind of them.
I wish they’d visit me more. When they do, it’s a quick array of hushed voices and then a quick silence. I don’t even see them. Then they’re gone for months.
But I don’t blame them, really. Like I said, it’s a dodgy place. Not a lot of traffic, just a lot of dullness. I wonder if my neighbours’ families ever visit. I hope so.
I spend so much time alone. There’s so much to think about. My thoughts never stop. But then again I do nothing with myself – no job, hobbies, or family, really. All I’m left with are these thoughts. They’ll never, ever stop. I have too much time.
I wonder if it would still be like this if I’d been cremated.