There is something in my lungs. A rough-edged creature the size of a fist, crawling and clawing its way up through my chest.
Been bed-ridden for the last few days, stoned clear on flu medicine and coughing hard enough to develop new abdominal muscles.
There is so much I want to do in 2007.
I want to start working on a sci-fi novel. Finally. About a girl in Karachi fighting for the future with the help of an Al Qaeda hacker.
I want to write a musical set in an office. A stage completely blocked with cubicles, electric blue tubelighting and actors leaping from office chairs as they look for their staplers. In rhythm.
I want to manage an all-women punk rock band named “Junkyard Ophelia.” Why don’t I know any girls that interesting? Clanging guitars and fire-alarm beats fighting for space with a small girl who sings like a banshee in pain. It would be amazing.
I want to start drawing with pens on paper again. I miss the ink staining my fingertips.
My eyes are watering and I can smell tiger balm fumes rising off my chest. I am ready to go into the next year, leaving the last behind in a fog of cotton and wool.