It was the first time he woke up that morning, and the last time he ever did such a thing. He opened his eyes, gathering nothing of the external world. He closed them back soon again. Maybe he dozed off, maybe he just laid there blind, waiting for his hiker soul to return.
No alarm was ringing, that already marked a good beginning. He didn't have to wake up. He might have stayed in bed all day, never having to throw off the sweet chains of dreams.
He opened his eyes again, forcing them to percieve something of the world that stung his eyes with its unchangingness as the first rays of sunlight at dawn. He blinked and pushed himself to sitting. He rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand and sighed, thinking how insanely foolish waking up is.
He grabbed some clothes on, walked out of the room to the kitchen for some water. Looking into the sink he saw a huge pile of unwashed dishes. He stepped close and picked up the first one.
Just like on other days, that time, too, he was overrun by a sense of ill-feeling. His life was a pile of garbage, rumpled newspapers, deflated tyres, torn cloths and smudgy left-overs. There was nothing to build from, his willpower was rotting somewhere underneath the scrapings, and on his enthusiasm life had long shot a hole, big as the middle of those tyres. His hands quivered as the tap cried a jet of water onto the dirty plate. With an automatic movement he scrubbed it over and rinsed it. As he was turning around, the watery porcelain slipped out of his hand, and after a slow fall it crashed into bits on the floor.
He bent over to scrape up the mess. He picked up every single piece one by one and dropped them into his palm. While he was gathering the shards he felt as if he recollected himself as well. The view soothed him. As his palm was full of the larger pieces he stood up to empty it for a next round. He unclenched his fingers and listened to the loud clash. He turned around.
The edge of his shirt got stuck in the corner of the stove. He flipped the fabric and with that exact same gesture elbowed a pan off the stove. It bumped around, jarring against the floor, leaving quite a few screaming smudges on the tiles. It even cracked them here and there.
He tried to free his tee from the gluey corner with slower motions, but growing tired of it quickly, he reached for a knife to get his shirt back or to get rid of the goo. It was just as much the same for him as life itself.
Back on the sink he grabbed the handle of the knife and pulled. The plate-rack and everything on it poured in front of the stove, falling into pieces with a deafening sound. He looked around with a flash in his eyes. The kitchen practically lied in ruins, especially the floor.
As he flinched from the noise before, his shirt broke free, leaving a tiny part behind in the putty, which lord-knows-how got so strong. He went for the broom. At a snail's pace he collected it, and without making a single sound walked back in. He bent over again and started cleaning up at the biggest pile, at eye-level with the stolen bit of his t-shirt. He kept whirling around to be able to get the pieces on the shovel, but doing so, he smashed a big one on the front of the stove.
It took him quite a time to get everything that was on the floor. He got up and emptied the little shovel into the dustbin and placed it next to the broom, aside. He looked around again. The afternoon heat was seething in the room. He went back to his room to get his mug, and as per usual, got back with an armful of unwashed dishes, a few empty packets and plastic wrappers.
Standing at the doorsill he conjured up his previous mental image of his life's garbage heap. He walked further in. Everything was so organized, pillowed up, folded up, graded, set in the corner, and knowing its place. He closed the door behind himself. He stepped to the sink and put the plates from his arm into it. He dropped an empty packet. He leaned over to get it, then another fell out.
He spread his arms, letting the trash fall on his feet. He lifted out a plate from the sink, and stared at it like it was the first time he saw one. That garbage heap. Here everything's so organized.
The first voluntarily thrown plate hit the wall. The second one broke right in front of the fridge. The third one landed on the stove that has been crackling for some time. The fourth and the fifth ended up together on the table, sliding on the chairs. The pots clanged through the room, and the contents of the fridge turned up soon as well. The walls were covered by a whole spectrum of colourful splotches. From the shelves the cans, the teabags, the spices, and coffee were all thrown into the chaos.
He looked around once more. That garbage heap. It used to be so organized over here.
He bent over and picked up a packet from the pile. He pulled out a matchstick and turned to the silently puffing stove. The gas kept coming at him and surrounded him, like the rotting smell of a garbage heap.
He lit the stick.
