Macca's Run

Another sleepless night. It's 2am and I lie awake, thoughts leaking out of my ears, the cranium unable to keep them contained, the black water gushing from every orifice, my mouth sputtering small grey flecks which stain the white sheets and pillow cover. I wake up, choking and coughing on the foul fluid.

I leave the house having decided to walk, the destination remains unknown.

Where do lonely people wander to at ungodly hours? Maccas.

I walk in the middle of the road, soaked in orange lights, embracing the chilly breezes that meander through the streets like restless wisps searching for their decomposing bodies.

Suddenly an abnormally strong gust of wind pushes me at an intersection, urging me to take a right. Suddenly my mind is focussed intently upon the greatest desire of my heart. Is it a sign from some higher power, that taking this path here might lead me closer to what I want?

Spider webs entangle me relentlessly, hanging from trees, mechanically constructing nets which entrap me in light, reflective threads.

The black water trickles down my leg, leaving a murky trail like coagulated blood along the road.

An invisible spirit follows the wounded animal's scent, encroaching, inescapable, chasing it's maimed and disfigured prey.

Like cold metal pressed unforgivingly against the roof of my mouth.

The Macca's is open. A bottle of water and a breakfast item, $8.40. A 6 minute wait for a fresh egg. Bhangra music plays in the background.

If only I could open every door of every building upon this earth, search each and every room and peer into the heart and soul of every single man, maybe, just maybe then I could fulfil my one desire from this barren existence, but to ask for such knowledge would be asking to become God and to be God is to make the greatest sacrifice of all.

I trudge along dead roads in hopes of a miracle, a chance encounter, as slim as it all may be, knowing that she most certainly lives elsewhere. I am alone entirely, not a single other person is outside pursuing hollow dreams, the streets are mine to ponder in solitude.

I have no doubt that if I were, by some divine provenance, in her presence, I would be underwhelmed by the weak and yielding flesh, insignificant next to the immortal statue that I have carved in my mind. Despite this pre-emptive admission of defeat, I am undeterred in my futile quest for seeming completeness.

My vision blurs, my thoughts go blank as I walk back, an hour passes between here and home, the suburbia collapses into transparent vapours.

In the end, I returned, having forgotten why I had left the house, puzzled at why I was holding a lukewarm sausage and egg McMuffin at 5am in the morning.

Drain fly larvae crawl out of the shower drain, pale white threads that thrive in damp darkness. Hundreds of them, writhing and wriggling in a hidden tangle of hair that lies underneath the drain cover, black water sloshing in the metal pipes far below.