by Neha Yazmin
~
Jamie scowled at the ceiling of his little room. Life had taken so much from him, he didn’t know how he’d survive if he were stripped of his ability to make music.
Sleet and snow had fallen and melted away with the first two weeks of the year. He’d kept his eyes down, searching for something in the earth, for he’d found nothing in the sky. As the snow became slushy and grey, his mind showed no sign of unblocking. If only the abrupt changes in the air and clouds could alter the frozen state of his mind.
Maybe the weather had to return to the patterns he was accustomed to before the inner workings of his psyche felt secure enough to come out from hibernation?
This late on a Sunday night, he should be hibernating himself. The entire council estate had died down; this part of Shoreditch––the Boundary Estate––could be quite uneventful most nights. It was still highly sought after as a place to live, with its excellent transport links, trendy bars, galleries and development potential.
Bethnal Green, Brick Lane, Hackney via Kingsland Road, Hoxton, Old Street, Central London and the City, all branched off from Shoreditch High Street like spider legs. Matt liked the fact that Liverpool Street Station, the Central London underground and railway terminus, was just a ten-minute walk away.
It didn’t make a difference to Jamie; he’d walk even if it were a thirty-minute journey. Better than sharing a bus with people.
Stretching in his bed, the only sounds Jamie could hear were the intermittent rumblings of the boiler, the wind rattling against the sash windows. He couldn’t relax, couldn’t close his eyes. Slip away.
It was just too quiet to sleep.
Eyelids heavy… thick lashes thinning into the soft light of the bedside lamp… black text blurring into the cream paper… the script alternating from comprehensible prose to utterly illegible smudges with each slow blink of her tired eyes… So sleepy… so exhausted… Stop! It’s only 2:17am. Far too early to sleep.
Mukti chuckled. Feeling tired and sleepy after two in the morning on a Sunday night, about to embark on the third Monday of her new job, she was telling herself it was too soon to fall asleep.
She flipped onto her back to revive her lethargic body, the movement brisk, almost a spin.
Numb from her leaning on them for the past several hours as she read the novel she’d started last night, her elbows enjoyed being free of the weight. Pins and needles broke through her arms as she settled into her new position. Soon, the pull of gravity on the hands that held the paperback a few inches above her face became too uncomfortable. Her joints began to ache. After all these years, she still hadn’t become immune to the pains and discomfort involved in her nocturnal practices.
And the mystery-thriller she’d been enthralled by all weekend was very good. It was almost an insult to the best-selling author Dan Brown that her mind and body were complaining of fatigue. But the first fortnight of her new job had been… not stressful, just new and hectic, with lots to learn and remember.
She wished she was familiar with every famous piece of art described and discussed in the novel, the renowned art gallery that formed the backdrop of the book so far. She hadn’t been to an art exhibition since primary school. She remembered enjoying the experience, being intrigued by the work on display, instead of using the day away from the classroom to mess about like the other children.
As the red numbers of her bedside clock moulded themselves into the numbers zero, three, zero, zero, Mukti’s eyes closed from sheer exhaustion. Before losing herself to unconsciousness, she made a note to visit an art gallery soon.