the bed that must be lain in

she could hardly beleive the cold feel of the un insulated window payne in her sodden rotting flat in cosham. it was ten am and even she couldnt beleive how early she had gotten up. it was sick. she stopped looking out the window and went back to the television. this morning was starting which meant it was ten thirty. shit. the beginning of another day. what shall i do today she though. fuck all, because she knew exactly what she would end up doing. eating and smoking. she always had good intentions, but it ended up that she just ate and smoked. if she had a little company along the way that was fine, good in fact. but the outcome was always the same. she wondered at what age all this had started. what age was she when things went being from interesting to ground hog day. she couldnt remember but of course she could never remember. fuck it. doesnt matter. live for today, make something of yourself. but at what age does it become apparent that you just arent going to make anything of yourself. all the people and places you know now are never going to change. never going to get bigger or better. that dream you had, of being a model, musician, writer, actor, entruprenuer, painter, dancer ect, what age do you have to lay your cards on the table and say fuck it, good dream while it lasted but its clearly not in my stars. when age, and relationships, and commitments and children and morgages and debts rule it out and the bed you have so regrettably made has to be laid in?. the bed never goes cold. few jump out the window into the universe of opportunity and forfill a lifelong ambition. most just put their pjs on, take their slippers off and jump into that snuggly, comfortable bullshit bed of an ordinary life. but who is to say what an ordinary life is? why is their anything wrong with that? surely it is just greedy and selfish people who strive for the finer things in life. but her idea of the finer things were big cars and lots of dosh. it was doing a job she loved, felt good and proud to do. a job that gave her respect for herself and which other gave her respect back. thats what she craved the most. but could she do it. what if she was just another fan? a fan of great story tellers, of great film makers and of great comedians and musicians. they made the masterpeices and she only marvelled them. ever listen to a piece of music and be so moved by it, it evokes a kind of foreign emotion, an emotion of peace or of enthusiasm or perhaps makes you recall a happy memory?
that is creation at its best. that is what she wanted. to create, to be an artist of some description, mixing writing with visuals and music. an incredible story teller. because those emotions we feel from a great film or piece of music are priceless to us, yet they are expensive because they make alot of people alot of money.
so thats where she was. in a chilly dark flat in cosham. wishing and dreaming of a better future that held all the answers and sparkled like a shiny gold key around a beautys neck.
recreational drugs can do alot of some people. good and bad. i think a person is as individual as choose to be. people forget there are choices.