There she sits. From the outside, it appears as if she works. She is typing; her keyboard clicking gently as each key is depressed. Occasionally she sips coffee from a large green and white mug, gripping it around the body rather than using the handle. If you were asked, you would say it is probably cold where she sits, under the bright light of a fluorescent bulb. She wears dark jeans and a leather jacket, the only touch of colour the bottom of a very short dress, or long top, which shows as a strip beneath the jacket.
As you cannot see the screen, you guess that it is work she is doing, because she also wears a frown of concentration. The desk she is seated at stretches out on either side of her, cluttered with papers and other items. She pays no attention to them, or to her surroundings; you can see they are not important to her. She stops typing for a moment to work her shoulder length hair out from the neckline of her jacket, then resumes.
But that is all from the outside. It is impossible to see what she is typing, and again impossible to tell what thoughts are provoking that intent look. You would like to ask, since she has piqued your interest, but she is a stranger, and you are only dreaming.
There she sits. She is typing, and hoping it appears that she is working. She is frowning; frustrated. The boredom she feels sitting here is not easily dispelled, although writing her stories goes some way towards that end. She is not quite warm enough, but the coffee, and extra layers she has on under her jacket help. Her jeans are a little too tight, and make it uncomfortable to sit at the desk all day. Her hair is irritating her; it won’t grow fast enough, and gets into her jacket.
As she stares at the screen waiting for inspiration, she can feel her frustration building. She feels as if there is a small incorporeal version of herself banging around inside her skull, beating her fists on the inside, and yelling into the dark pink ether of her brain, trying to escape.
She wonders if others feel this way, or whether she is slowly going mad with boredom.
And as she sits, and as the feeling of madness creeps through her body, she has the distinct feeling that she is being observed. She is being watched. She can feel invisible eyes crawling over her body.
And as this feeling settles on her, as she becomes more sure of it, irrational anger replaces the boredom, perhaps exaggerated by it. She stills, but doesn’t look around. She knows it is not something she will be able to see. And that small self inside her head, that incorporeal body stills too. With both her selves she reaches her senses out, feeling the air. And the feeling dies. There is nothing. She is only dreaming.
