Diminished, Returned

(Penned in Bold Street Coffee, Manchester)

Photograph by Chris Kerr

The rain cascaded off the ornate skylight grafted to the mid-century studio that had been let to Pria at a significant discount due to its proximity to the sprawl. This was her favourite place to lie during a downpour. The droplet symphony was accompanied by the soft crackle of the dusty record playing in the background. A vintage pressing left to Pria by her father. 

She struggled with moments like this. Fleeting periods where she would meld with the static and drift into a trance as she observed the grey clouds through the tattered glass pane. Would anybody recall the woman who stared back, trapped in a half-realised reflection? Pria was transfixed by the ageing creature on the mattress below. She'd harboured so many dreams when she was younger. Ambitions of becoming a renowned musician or celebrated writer. Someone who could make others feel something in an increasingly empty world. Now she too had become numb, those hopes washed ashore and left to rust like those of so many others.

Would anybody remember her when she inevitably reached the end? 

Pria had become comfortable, but she wasn't sure if she was happy. It was an intrusive thought and one that increasingly filled her with dread. What if this was it? The sum of her being. A congenial existence before slow decay. She pushed it back. Imagining herself as an old woman on her deathbed, longing to return to a time when the sound of water on glass heralded anxieties about a journey untravelled. It was enough to jolt her awake. The spectre in the window smiled at the silent epiphany. In that moment, she had become a time traveller, filled with purpose at the realisation she still had so much left to give. 

The rain continued and Pria laughed.