Here I am, at the end of the year. That year.
I sit on my black chair. It started squeaking around midsummer.
My butt never leaves the chair since October. Not even when I leave the room.
Me and my favourite chair, our relationship became tense in December. We simply spent too many hours together.
I’m waiting to be admitted to my friends’ room.
While waiting I touch my cheek. Rub it softly.
A bleak compensation for all the missed kisses.
I’m admitted. I see a face. A rectangular cut out of a familiar space.
I dressed up for the occasion. I put on my bright green blouse.
My friend can’t see the sweat pants I’ve been wearing since March. Nor smell it.
We chat for a bit and I feel surprisingly happy.
We reminisce about the places we once travelled.
We agree we don’t miss the airport drill, but wouldn’t mind for the metro to drive us through London.
Oh, London. Where are you now? Where are you now?
My friend starts crying. I reach for a hand. I grab a cold white mouse instead.
After a while we exchange a last wave and before I know it I’m staring at my cluttered desk again.
The screen turns black and I see my silhouette reflected.
Here I am. Still. At the end of the year. That year.
The year that was a first act in this improv theater.
I acted content, frustrated, hopeful, fearful, insightful, glad and sad
in this biggest theater, on the smallest stage with the biggest invisible actor of this century.
I revive the screen. I open a new window to the world.
A world preparing behind the curtains for the second act.
Who knows how long the second act will be?
To jab or not to jab, that is the question.
I close the world and turn around in my beloved chair.
I turn off the lights and while I descent into my smallest, biggest life I realize something:
P.S. : shake 2020 off Swiftly.