*Fiction*
I’m not very confident.
I’d rather acknowledge that lack of confidence in private — not the outside world — and just get on with the basics. They are: striving for perfection, dreaming of unattainable heights, expecting the world — from the comfort of this prison cell I’m eternally trapped in: the second-storey of a small apartment block in Sherwood Rise.
It’s so damn quiet today; those lining up at the fair wouldn’t believe it.
No neighbour across the road summoning the Lord through violent wailing, while her sister sits on a beanbag at the window reading a pop-up book, blissfully unaffected.
No kiddies scaling the red brick wall that runs the length of the street behind our houses.
‘Wait, wait, Abdi, slow down and wait for me.’
I sit alone, with my thoughts my only company.
The TV’s on. It’s a nothing talk show. Everyone knows them, because everyone watches them. Some woman’s whining about graffiti taking over the skylines, or something like that. You’d think the apocalypse was coming. And all the world’s problems were the fault of out-of-control teenagers.
But teenagers aren’t evil. They just can’t sing. The locals anyway. They stay up late singing karaoke at the pub opposite here every Thursday night. They belt out Madonna. Classic Madonna: Borderline and Lucky Star. Then they play-fight in the car park outside while their girlfriends, high heels in hand, look surprised — as though they can’t remember the same scene from the week before.
This talk show’s doing my head in. The music on my stereo is better. It soothes me. It brings me back to a certain point. It’s all circular, though. I’ve learned nothing. I wish I were happier — but I like being sad. That must be it. Something about the music draws me in. I’d be bored without music. And I’d be nothing without sadness. This is a merry-go-round.
The fair. It’s only down the road. I wouldn’t even have to walk that far down the hill to get there. It’s day one. At least I think it is. Things would just be starting to come to life by now. It always takes a while.
The animals would be parading out; the children would be converging from far and wide — their flustered mothers trailing in unison — and I could be standing on the midway a part of it all, allowing the magic to flow around me. It would encircle my body and lift me skywards. I could even get the bus back if I was too exhausted, or nauseous after all the rides.
The rides. The food. Everyone loves eating that shitty food. But my teeth are aching. They are actually sore. It’s like someone’s driving pins into my gums. My sinuses are all blocked up. My hair is heavy. I’m getting old. And I’m still thinking of youthful heartbreak.
I’m not very confident. I wonder if they have those same clowns at the fair that they used to. It would take me back a long way. It really would.
What about those showbags? Or the ponies? Doesn’t everyone just love a plump little pony? What about the coloured poodles? Oh, the coloured poodles! Dammit, if all those kids out there painting the buildings or boxing each other to the beat of Madonna had a pink and purple poodle, the world would be a better place.
I’m lost. Completely, totally, utterly lost!
And I hate it.
I’m scared.
It’s going to end badly. Getting a job? Hopeless. A shower? Agony. A shave? Dread. Burden. Pain. Emptiness. Frustration. I’m better than this. The fair is on. I was once at that fair. With people I know. People I knew. All of whom are gone now. All that’s left is someone on the TV complaining about graffiti!
I hate the fair. But I miss it. The candyfloss. Pink would be my choice. Blue for something different.
I’m not that confident. But I’m bored of this. If I can make it outside – just to the fair — I bet I can find the real me again. Somewhere between the merry-go-round and the coloured poodles.