Hello there! I’m starting over on Space for Cream. The struggle is real! I trashed quite a bit of stuff that I probably should have kept, typical of me. But what’s done is done and I’m moving on. Here’s the new opening scene. Let me know what you think. Just keep in mind that it is super rough still.
The day begins like everyday. The pain is the same and the medicine is the same. And the work is the same, just in a different place. The sound of the fog horn accompanies me in the early morning as I go about the small studio, making sure she’ll have everything she needs. The stillness is interrupted by the creaking floorboards and the deep bass of the fog horn. Her damp pale skin glistens in the moonlight, like a scene from a terrible drama. It’s the last thing I see every morning before I leave for work.
I lock the door behind me and step out into the somber early pre-sun morning. Fog-blanketed streets greet me, glowing from the shrouded streetlights. The fog cloaks the echo of my footsteps as I walk down the street. The entirety of The City lies quiet; it’s denizens sleeping. The deep blaring of the fog horn interrupts the quiet for just a moment before fading away. It feels like the heartbeat of the city, pulsing along at a steady pace. I thought I would hate it after first experiencing it, that I would come to despise it’s wall penetrating power. But I do not. Instead I find it comforting. It’s necessity, it’s permanence, it’s longevity—the simple yet unrelenting fact that it is far older than me and that it will live far longer sits well in my stomach as it shakes my bones.
The power of it softens little by little as I continue down the street. The marine layer has a metallic taste to it as it passes through to my lungs. How many carcinogens are entering my body through this thick ground cloud? I do not know but I’ll add to them with a cigarette. Each one I light sparks a small fire of guilt that threatens to consume me. She nevers says anything. Even her eyes are absent of judgement. And I find that to be worse than if she were just mad at me.
I should quit, but I don’t want to. They comfort me. They pull me in as I pull on them to inhale. The sensation of the smoke filling my lungs engulfs my mind and I feel free to think, to dream, to imagine. Where will I get these moments if I quit? When will I be still for just ten minutes, to think or to not? Will I ruminate on the things that bother me or take off in my imagination to worlds unoccupied by work, war, politics and struggle? I am afraid to find out. So I keep smoking as my feet take me through the shrouded streets to the glowing green sign identifying my store.
The siren looks down, beckoning me and others. Apron in hand, I snuff out my dreams and unlock the door. They’re coming, and soon. Coffee makes the world go round and I make the coffee. Welcome to the day world, here’s your hand-crafted cup of addiction all dressed up and ready to go.