My life has become a metaphor for cotton pyjamas. They’re draped on my chair; vocabulary and emotion escape me.
I live with this fixture in an existence where tiredness is earned, and energy is gifted. Whilst the windows flicker blue to black, I examine scraps of the past with no meaning; memories with colour rather than words. Images rise with the sun and sink to the void as it sets. As fittings, faces and people evolve, the cotton stays the same.
Cotton takes me to a platform as a train vanishes. Or a lobby with steel chairs as intercom static undoes a forgotten serenity. Cotton lifts me to the sky through a storm, then iced suburbia and snow with no breeze. I drift through muted sounds, and it unfolds like a ghost. Glitters, music, passion and snow. Footprints and cotton.
And there they remain, draped on my chair in an empty room, and I wait alone, as if-
As if cotton.
As if cotton pyjamas.