I woke slowly, feeling heavy. My eyes burned, my head throbbed, and my heart ached. In the past, any ailment I acquired or conflict I mulled seemed infinitely more manageable after a brief slumber. Yet today, as the light of pre-dawn dark peered through my window, I realized the usual coping mechanism had failed.
Perhaps more sleep was the answer. I closed my eyes. I found it wasn’t.
Well, shit.
It was 6:16 AM. I’d spent 32 of my last 48 hours at the office, and I was tired, but by now all hopes of returning to sleep had dissipated. My stomach grumbled, desiring substance beyond the maple crème cookie I’d eaten some hours prior. I took its suggestion and shuffled to the kitchen, scavenging the cupboard and fridge. Eggs. I would cook eggs.
I plopped down on my sallow loveseat. Good God, those Swedes could manufacture some uncomfortable furniture. I nibbled on the eggs, but after a few bites the smell and appearance grew repulsive. Mere seconds ago, I wanted nothing more than this breakfast. Bah. Stupid eggs.
I surveyed the whole of my tiny apartment. Clothes littered the floor and groceries from a few days prior stood on the counter. Frames I’d purchased months ago waited, begging me to finally take the first step in making this place my home. Still, I resisted. They held nothing. This place held nothing.
How had I let things get so bad?
I sat, staring through the massive window before me, it being the only redeeming attribute of my current living quarters. I wanted to wallow in romanticized sadness and confusion, question why I felt so hollow. But I knew.
Emptiness had taken form as a monkey in the room for some time now. The appropriate thing to do when one notices a primate lurking in their midst is to acknowledge its presence, perhaps wine it and dine it for a small while, and then take the necessary steps to usher it out—because Jesus Christ, it’s an unpredictable, unwelcomed, dirty fucking monkey.
This particular monkey had contemplated entering my space for a while, performing reconnaissance and gracefully stepping one paw in and out of the perimeter like some cruel game of hopscotch. He eventually crossed the line to stay, but his permanence had gone unnoticed because in that same space, I entertained a circus. I sensed the monkey had entered, sure, but did it really matter? To right of me stood performing bears, to the left, roaring lions. In the bleachers a loyal crowd eagerly consumed all I offered.
As ringmaster, I was preoccupied and distracted, but not oblivious to the monkey’s intermittent ruckus. As each incident escalated, I failed to eschew him because something always served as a distraction. I had recoiled into my day-to-day duties because it was necessary. It was comfortable. Fuck that little obnoxious monkey, because the show must go on.
And now, at 6:16 AM on a Saturday, with every last tent disassembled, each member of the crew set on new paths, my circus had disbanded. At 6:16 AM I was still the ringmaster, but all that remained in my space was clutter, un-mounted picture frames, and a troublemaking monkey illuminated by the shy dawn light.
I gazed at the clock. 6:17.
Perhaps it was time to escort him out the door.
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