Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer
It’s hot. It’s really hot. It feels so stuffy and suffocating in here. Is it just me or does anyone else feel the sudden urge to open every bloody window and let in a cool breeze? I can see the leaves moving outside. I know there’s air…fresh air… it could be in here, if only we opened a window. I can’t take off any more layers. Why is everyone else so rugged up? Jumpers, scarves, shawls…WTF?! I’m so bloody hot! Maybe it’s just me? It is possible that it could just be me. Maybe it’s my blood sugar? Maybe it’s the increasing sugar in my over-caffeinated blood? Maybe it’s my pancreas. It’s my malfunctioning pancreas that’s to blame and not this room with it’s closed windows and thick air. Maybe the air is thin and fresh and it’s my blood that’s hot and thick and stuffy. It doesn’t really matter does it? We’ll be leaving this room soon and then I’ll know. Then I’ll know whether it’s me or this room. There’s so much heat here…in me….in the room…in other people. Oh god, who cares. Heat aside, temperature aside, there’s baggage in this room. Maybe it’s the baggage and all the shit inside that baggage that’s making me hot…. suffocating me…smothering me. Maybe that baggage is making other people in the room cold? It’s making other people wrap their shawls and pashminas and scarves more tightly around their bodies. A protective layer…a shield perhaps. Is this group therapy? It’s starting to feel like group therapy. Can you wade through life’s shit with a pen? Can I wade through death, grief, trauma, anger, guilt, and disease with a pen?