The sun is bright this time of the day. Midday. 13:01. Time for lunch. As much as the sun beckons, the cold kitchen interior must first be braved in order to prepare some food for the lunchtime meal.
He walks the steps every Thursday. Hauntingly similar days coalescing in his peripheries.
He feels trapped.
After clicking on the kettle, a tearing follows. A tearing of the noodles from their packaging. An innately violent act from the perspective of the noodles. In their short lives the noodles have known only the safe and secure inside of the packaging. They are birthed violently into the bowl. That is what they believe at least. Their perspective. For the blue clad man this is just business as usual. This happens every Thursday like clock work.
He feels trapped because he is trapped. There is no getting away from it. After seeing enough violent noodle-births one becomes jaded towards the whole experience.
Two minutes elapse.
With suddenly much warmer hands, the blue clad man makes his way back out to the sunshine. Down the steps and to the garden bench. It is splintery and old, but it’ll do. It’s in the sunshine after all. Finally some time to release the built up tension in the shoulders. The tension has been building for a while, and I don’t know if it’ll ever fully dissipate, but for now, a stretch in the sunshine will help ease it down again.
The blue clad man brings his right leg up onto the bench, fully utilising the supportive nature of the old wooden frame. Splinters luckily can’t penetrate the blue claddings.