I’m not sure why I’m sat here in the dark, the lights work perfectly – not all of them, the bulb in the kitchen’s bust but otherwise there’s no real excuse. I’ve got painter’s block, you see (is that a thing?), and to get rid of painter’s block you’ve got to sit in the dark, apparently.
Tom’s making a right racket upstairs putting all his stuff in the drawers I called dibs on, probably, and I’m sitting here, in the lounge, in the dark, writing out my thoughts like they’re worth anything to anyone.
There’s a nasty orange light coming in from the streetlamp; it’s not nice at all but it’s the only thing stopping the room being pitch black. I appreciate street lamps more than most people. I find myself in this situation far too often. I suppose you think I’m a nutter, “just get up and turn the light on”, but I don’t want to, honestly. I don’t want to move at all. All I want is this bloody barrier between my thoughts and all my creative bits, wherever they are, to piss off so I can just get on with it.
Tom’s coming downstairs now, I know how this is going to go “why are you sitting in the dark, Jen?”, I don’t know, Tom, why am I sitting in the dark? Does anyone know why I’m sitting in the dark, because I certainly don’t. All I know is that I don’t want to be the one to turn the light on, I wouldn’t mind if you switched it on, Tom, but I can’t do it myself. For now, I suppose the streetlamp will have to do.