Break the Mould

Sitting on my bed of an evening, I look at the little imperfections in my life that frustrate me. Although I can’t see it, I can feel it, the broken slat at the end. It makes no difference by the looks of it, the bed still holds but it’s always there. I know that the draw in front of me is loose, that if I pull it the front will come off. Every day I tighten the screw, but when I come back the next it’s inexplicably loose again. So is the way of things, with me constantly trying to turn against the tide in vain.

Most of all is the mould upon my roof, crawling in from the window, invading my private sanctuary with insidious deliberation. Despite my best intents and building a fortress, it always creeps in, taunting and beckoning me to try and fight it back. The doubts and fears, paranoia doing its job against my wishes. And as it comes, slowly but surely, the slat stays broken and the draw comes loose again.

Every day, the same. Tightening my draw when I wake up and feeling the bed giving way, more pressure every time. The perfect look of it from the outside and the crippling problems beneath the surface. Sixteen years, and still I can’t break the mould.

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About Peter Hughes

Satire.

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