The Itch

My legs are itching under the desk. I can feel the leftover sand in between my toes, remnants I couldn’t wash off in the shower; it sticks to me like scales to a mermaid. Perhaps, I daydream, I am becoming a part of the sea or at the very least a part of my nook. I miss the smell of the fresh paint mixed with salt air. The new colour on the walls is burned into my memory and I can’t close my eyes without seeing the image of smooth yellow splashed across the living room wall. I want to run back to my nook and rest my face against it, feel the sunshine of the paint whisper to my inner creativity and let it shine onto paper. I want to write!

Staring at my computer screen my swing has only just begun. Three long days and two long nights, sixty hours in total but it might as well be a lifetime. I can hear the clock ticking, every strike of the second hand feels like the Grim Reaper cutting away at my freedom with an axe. Damn him!

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