The loud noisy rumbling of the rubbish collection truck
outside. This is how day after day passes, though time is an illusion. The last
thing I did last night before going to bed was put the bins out, the domestic
waste and the recycling, and here is the truck now, slowly moving up the road demanding
to be heard, urging me to wake up, to start the day, as if without opening my eyes
the day will not start, as if by not rolling up the blind the sun will not rise,
without opening the creaking window the birds will not sing. I must get up, I
must pull the bins back inside, I must prove that I am alive, that the day may
start and the turning clocks in my mind and the rush of blood through my veins
and the millions of heart beats and the breaths that must be taken. Time is an
illusion, life is an illusion, I have willed this day to happen, I have made it
happen simply by pushing my bins outside for the collectors to take in the
morning, pushing my wheelie bin outside I suggested that there be tomorrow, another morning, a new day, another life.
