Laying Down

I lay down. It's a bad idea, as the odds of getting up again seem to reduce each time. That's not in any way some dramatic allusion to death, just a statement as to the vitality and reliability of my joints.

The ceiling should be blank. It isn't. That Cockney hooligan from round the corner pinned a Van Gogh print there after I mentioned how much I stare at it. He seemed to think he was helping, but bugger all if I understand a word he says. His mum probably puts him up to checking on me.

I breathe. Each breath is a mild surprise and disappointment, both in quality and that it comes at all. My eyes wander through the colors of the painting. Colors, that's all it is, you see. The thing's too small, and I can't see that far. He means well, the stupid git.

In time, the painting envelopes me, a rush of color and warmth. As dreams go it's lovely, makes me feel free, young almost. I follow. I go. I float. There is no resistence in me, not to any dream or whatever fantasy this is.

I smell lillies.