One day, I just sat by my typewriter wrote what I saw… Here’s the result.

I am here, in this room, a kitchen of a small apartment in suburbia, Sweden. There’s a small kitchen table in the middle of the room. Before me is a window. On the windshield there’s a toaster, a cacti, a lamp, and a mixer. The blinds are pulled halfway and the window is slightly dirty. They will never be cleaned, has never been cleaned, as far as I know. Outside people pass. To where? I haven’t a clue. It is Sunday morning. Where do people go on Sunday mornings?

A man stops and looks my way. The drapes cover his face so I can’t be sure if it is me he’s eyeing. He has not moved for quite some time now. I wonder what he’s thinking about… He’s gone now, save for an empty cigarette pack on the ground.

The grass is green and there’s a dog poop on the sidewalk. I stepped on one once, trying to save a few seconds cutting over the grass. There’s stuff on the counter; a dirty frying pan from yesterday and a pot I used to boil potatoes, also not cleaned. There’s dirty dishes in the tray and clean ones in the holder, waiting to be put in their place. I hate doing the dishes. I also hate how dirty it gets… Is it worth cleaning everyday to to keep it neat? I don’t think so. We all have different priorities. I wish it could be avoided altogether…

There are papers (…) Had to rewind the ink roles on my typewriter (…)

There are papers scattered over the kitchen table, both for drawing and writing. One has become easier and the other more important…

Idea lurk at my periphery. If I look directly at them, they disappear. I’m certain there are people living in the cacti. I see them when I write, climbing the stalk, but disappear when I go nearer to have a closer look. I wonder where they come from…

If I sit long enough, and do nothing, I feel tugging at the sleeves of my pants. Creatures under the table hurrying me on. They are bigger than the cacti people, more bothersome. I don’t see how if I’m writing or not is anyone’s business but my own. Yet they urge me to continue to work, to write them. Why should I write about such ugly creature, I say to them? They don’t have an answer to that… I should stop typing for now. I’ve bother the neighbours for long enough…

© Christopher Stamfors