The Personal Game

Maria Fusco

5.03am Thursday. Silence.

Meenie: It's dark.

Eenie: What a piece of work is man!

Meenie: I sleep for an hour or two at most. Sometimes in bursts together but more often not. I cannot distinguish my sleep from my thoughts. Have I been asleep? How long have I been asleep?

Eenie: How noble in reason!

Meenie: If only there was someone who could hear me and would say yes. Or no. The response is of little consequence. That I appear to have been heard is the matter of most importance.

Eenie: How infinite in faculties!

Meenie: At that time, I dreamt that the most precise minds, the finest entrepreneurs were far behind me and that my skills had swelled to split the container that tried in vain to restrain them. That is why I am what I am. That is why I have become.

Eenie: In form and moving, how express and admirable!

Meenie: I traverse extraordinarily long distances in the lucid moments, characterised by preternatural leaps and extramundane bounds. I cover so much ground in a matter of seconds, as to make a mockery of clock time.

Eenie: In action how like an angel!

Meenie: Fallen from grace, I exist in between hard and soft spaces, where fluid supports me and I float.

Eenie: In apprehension: how like a god!

Meenie: And yet: how else could it have begun?

Eenie: How like a god! How like a god! How like a god!