Soul lost

I lost her somewhere between chucking in my third load of washing and packing the others up from the dryer. I must have rambled on and on about this, that or whatever when I realised she’d stop listening. I thought she might just be sitting quietly by the wait chairs maybe looking out on to the streets or something, I don’t know. It was after I shut the lid and pressed the ‘start’ button that I’d found her gone. I thought: hang on, I’ll just wait here and read my paperback novel – she’ll get bored and come back. I mean, where could she go? She simply cannot vanish without my permission – it doesn’t work that way.

What? Was she unhappy?

No, I don’t think so. Actually, I’m not too sure. Look, we’ve had that chat plenty of times. And yes, it’s that subject that had us both on the defensive: not everybody gets to live the life they want to live okay? Let’s get real here. One can’t simply decide and say: right, I am going to be a writer or singer or artist with a wave of a wand, or simply live however we want to live to be happy, snap! like that. Of course I’d rather live my days writing the next big novel or meeting interesting characters at the café, etcetera – instead of trying to make ends meet, counting every dollar and cent and doing the washing in laundromats like this because the washing machine’s conked and we’re too fucking poor to buy a new one. But to answer your question (and hers): yes, I lack the courage to take the leap. So what?

Maybe you’re right. Maybe he’s just over me.

…which is fine I guess but that’s not how it should end. She does not get the right to just up and leave, like that. For one, there’s no splitting up until I die unless I sell her away in exchange for something, of course. So many huge stars today have gotten to where they are because they all sold theirs. But I can’t sell you, I said once, it’s out of the question because good Christians never sell their souls. I’ve made peace with going to my grave having achieved nothing spectacular at all, I remember saying. To which she mumbled something to the effect of “having never lived at all” or something that sounded like a phrase from a bumper sticker.

It must have been over an hour where I sat waiting on those worn out, mite-ridden chairs when I decided she’s probably never coming back. So, I packed my laundered clothing and made my way out.

Where did she go? I wonder.

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As a huge fan of micro fiction, I always prefer less (words) is best. And while this draft was rejected for its less-than-600 words rule, I felt it is far too limiting to throw something out simply because the idea of a micro-fiction (+/- 500 words) is too radical. This piece was written during one of my many creative writing exercises and this one in particular was an exploration of the organic style of writing, in other words, a style that does follow any set plan or plot-points. Japanese novelist Haruki Murakami is renowned for this, opting to begin his stories with no particular destination in mind and to let the words take him. In this piece, one might spot a similar flavour of the abstract; a weird predicament having to lose one’s soul in, of all places, a laundromat. A moment in time that should have been addressed with serious concern.