When I Stop to Think
Sometimes when life slows down and I find myself sitting there with nothing to do, I try to think. But I don’t.
And other times I do.
I think about the nail on my wall. What a long nail. I imagine him saying, “This wall is loads of fun and all, but I miss my friends at the nail store.”
I think about the piece of blue paper on my desk, so still, so lifeless. I can almost hear her say, “You may be a person with emotions and you can walk and talk, but I am a lovely shade of blue.” Hard to argue with that.
I think about my shoes. Are they friends? Do they care about who goes first? Are they thirsty? Can’t we all just get along?
I think about the drop of water on my ear. Can he feel pain? I try stabbing it with my finger- again and again taking out all of my pent up anger towards water dating back to the “chicken incident.”
I think about the corner of the room. Always stuck in a corner…loser.
I think about thinking about stuff. Does it make me smarter to think a lot? Is thinking about thinking meta thinking? If I think about meta thinking is that meta meta thinking? Is thinking about that making me stupider? Is stupider even a word? Does it matter? If I think about that, am I meta-stupid? (My friend thinks I am mega-stupid.) Is thinking a good use of my time when I could be shopping online? I could use a new ornamental doll.
I think about my door. Always opening and closing. A gateway to the world. So proud, so obtuse. I know the door thinks, “I have achieved perfect doorness — try that on for size.”
I think about the peeling paint. It used to be so shiny, so smooth. I feel a tinge of guilt. Yet another mistake I have made. Or is it a yearning for some ham?
I think about the staples in the stapler. They are probably scared and nervous — sitting in the dark, huddled together awaiting their harsh release from their hive. What does it say about me as I laugh and cackle like a witch every time I staple something? I often will stand on my desk just shooting staples shouting and yelling like a cowboy. The staples flying through the air and falling to the cold, hard floor. I feel so alive!
I think about my wooden desk looking to its side out the window at the trees. I can almost here it loudly call, “I was like you once. Tall. Proud. More vertical. Now it is up to you to carry on the way of the trees. Only you can keep that grass in its place. Man do I hate that grass!”
I feel like my chair hates me. I try to put myself it her place. It’s a really confusing exercise. That’s how I spent my summer.
I think the heater with its bangs and clangs is the ringleader of the room. Inciting the masses. Drumming up support. Taking steps towards a revolution that will not be televised (I think my computer is setting up a live stream).
I think about the air in the room. I breathe it in and out. I think, “Does the air have a face, and if so where is the nose?”
I think about the carpet full of an army of dust mites and billows of feathery, plush dust balls. It’s like a party down there. I imagine the carpet whispering to the mites, “You make him break out in a rash and sneeze all the time. You complete me.”
I often look at the filing cabinet and see my younger self. Medium height, good build, a strong moral compass, a bit mischievous, rectangular. Plus I often have fantasies of being packed with files and documents.
I think about the walls. The four walls that surround me. I can imagine the tears at the summer wall market when they were taken away. It’s a tough world out there especially you don’t have mama and papa wall there to support you. I do my best to be there for my walls, but even with lots of practice I just can’t perfect the accent.
I think about the glue. I can imagine it saying, “I hate being so one-dimensional. I aspire to do more with my life than just help things stick together. Now don’t get me wrong, I know I play an important role in society. I am literally ‘the glue’ that holds things together and I know others would kill to be me. I just wish I could dance. I long to dance…and be sticky. Is that asking too much?”
I think about the lamp. Lighting up the room. “Mr. Personality!” I say snidely. I always have had a bit of negative view towards that lamp. I did think of replacing it and actually got as far as putting my hand on the plug, preparing to yank when I swear I heard “I’m sorry.” To this day, I’m not sure who was speaking me or the lamp.
Others have often told me they are worried about how close I am to my books. And others just make odd faces when they walk by and see me lying on the floor amongst a huge pile of books, rolling around, laughing and crying, having the time of our lives. My analyst wonders who those moments are really for: me or my books. I always say, after a long, deep thought, “We are one.” Which is always followed by a long drawn out pause. I sometimes will sit there and pull one special book to my face. “Facebook,” I say. This really lame attempt at humour oddly makes me smile from ear to ear for 45 minutes.
I think about the ceiling and the floor and wonder if they would love to smoosh everything between them and come together. Is the ceiling like the older sibling who got the top bunk? Is the ceiling my favourite?
I think about the windows. I imagine them singing, “We’ve got the funk.” If one thing is true, I don’t have jive windows.
I look at the clock. Boring old clock. I find myself feeling sorry for it sometimes, but then I remember it is easily one of the two wisest things in this room. I hope I’m the other, but I know the mouse has its moments.
I’m in direct competition with the bulletin board. We are playing this game seeing who can stick more tacks and pushpins into themselves. The board has 47 and I am trying to argue that he has a distinct advantage over me, as he actually likes it. He also won the last game which was who could do the the best board impression. Note to self: Stop letting him choose the games.