Hair on Carpet

My hair sticks to the carpet. I'm not doing a handstand, I'm on my feet. I push the hoover over it and over it and over it. It just won't go. The hair sits. It mocks me. You'll never be this settled, it taunts.

There are patches all over the floor. One, two, three four fi- did I count that one already? A family of hair. Maybe families. Maybe some clumps are enemies of other clumps. Which is the oldest? Who are the ancestors? I guess me. I am the origin. I am the original parasite.

I have three hoovers and none belongs to me. I have no hoovers. I have pieces of furniture and none belongs to me. I have no furniture. I pay for shelter, I do not own shelter. I give them money, they fulfil a basic need. They own my existence.

The hair is moving. I think it’s jealous of the attention I’m giving the furniture. These mini tumbleweeds move from left to right like the little men on a foosball table. I am that man. We are those men. We make the only movements we are allowed, stuck in our lanes. Kick, kick, kick. Swing and slide. Stay in your row. You are defence. We are on a pitch. Who is the referee? I’m wrong. The hair isn’t jealous, it’s worried. It thinks I’m spending too much time in my mind.

I return to the hoover but move to another room. I’m fed up with stubborn, hyperaware pieces of hair. This new room is crumb-ridden. Pieces of bread, mostly. I see wrappers. I don’t see rappers. I seek wrappers. I am wrapped. I wrap you. I am a poor wrapper.

The hoover continues its droning scream, and I am submerged by a wave of claustrophobia. I don’t know who I am between these walls. I don’t know how to act. I’ve forgotten how to speak. I only exist in typing. The outside looks pleasant. I hear a serenity out there. Out there hears chaos in here. I renounce the indoors. I will travel the seven staircases. I will exit. I will renounce my lack of care. I will renounce my apathy. I will feel, I will contribute. The hair returns to me.

22.08.2023