Little beeping mouse

The dishwasher hums. I take a sip of rose hip tea.

The kitchen table is still pulled out after Christmas’ visit. One short end is full of mail, newspapers and an opened envelope. The address window does not reveal the reason for its existence. Its edges stand out like a rocky mountain range against the brown table.

A cluster of dried out daffodils languish in a wan pot. In a sigh, a blade seems to strive to touch the table.

The sink is full of dishes. The lack of light creates a gloom over shiny glass and half eaten food. The air is filled with unspoken words. Words and dreams long for a shape. A longing for everyday life with joy and activity.

A longing for lightness and kisses, laughter and joy. A longing.

Traffic whizzes by in a constant flow. The window shows bare, blackbrown branches. Lush green seems to be just a dream. Unreachable dreams.

Outside, the trees are bare and hard. Inside, the flow is blocked. An inner slumber whizzes around the sadness and shame of restraint. I stomp in the same place, crying over what I cannot grasp.

I expect the world to fall at my feet, to lift me up, to pull me out of my shell. Unavailing expectations. The world only needs one look at me to walk on.

I am a cocoon of doubt and defiance. Who gets curious about a mouse beeping in a corner?

The dishwasher sounds as it wants to break through its cover. The apartment is quiet. The house is quiet. I might as well be alone at home, alone in this whole tall house.

An iron pan remains on the black stove. Its handle is pointing straight at me.

What do you want to do with your life? It says.

What do I want?

Will I pull that damned mouse out of the corner and step into my proper shoes? What proper shoes? I do not have, proper shoes.

Because I am the little mouse in the corner. I am a little beeping mouse.

I am a little mouse because life is hard and to strive and to do what needs to be done and there is no room for other than that. I continue to whine in an unwilling world, and the feeling of missing something creeps into my bones and a little beep in my ear: I am the manifestation of failure.

The tea has a cold red color and a bitter tone. A cold, bitter tea in a world of hollow dreams.

I put the cup back on its saucer and stare into air.