Root In

At the end of the day she got back to her cell, inserted the key in the lock, grinding squeaks followed, a process which she prolonged as much as she could. It was pleasurable to keep the door at the edge of opening, just like smelling the food before eating when one is famished or standing on hot sand for a second before engaging into the cool waters. The moment before relief. The pleasure of almost reaching pleasure.

The door is opened with slightly warm air bursting out through her face, a welcome from her cosy prison. She stepped in, closed the bars behind and threw her boots somewhere near the door, her coat on the armchair, herself on the sofa. It was a long day of working, running around, having opportunities for better things to do but it was all gone now. She was free of the big prison called “a day” by hiding in her small and comfortable cell. Neither work could harm her now, nor an adventure call her loud enough to disturb her routine. Finally, she summarized the whole act with the same amount of effort she puts in for going through life: 2 different words, one of them repeated uncreatively. ”Home sweet home.”

3.3.19