'Willpower' by Claire Schön

It’s not yet a new year. No reason for a reset, a realisation. 

It’s a Tuesday at the end of April. Summer sweats in the chill spring shade, restless. Billboard threats blaze with bikinis on cool mannequins, lifeless.

I survived Easter, I survived Julie’s fortieth and that cake, I even survived staying at Mum’s for a week and butter served with a scrape of toast. 

So, why now?

I’m blaming the dream. I was at my own funeral, a whisp of a thing, well, a ghost. I was floating around listening to nothing. Nothing. Nobody had anything to say. Well, they did, sentiments like, ‘There was nothing left of her in the end'. They were nipping at Ryvitas, sipping water. 

I zoomed in on myself – in the box. Lycra-clad, plus trainers. Trainers. So much training, resistance, resisting temptation, wrestling the truth. I looked good but dead.

Dead: the streets always are when I wake, make myself take those first steps, do the reps, eat the eggs, just the whites that aren’t white but nothingy, transparent. 

Not today. Today I lie in my bed. I lie and tell the truth instead. My truth. My smashed-up bright yellowy-orange-yolked truth. 

I’m round: rounded; I could do with losing a few pounds. Losing. Who wants to be a loser? Lose out? Miss out? Deny. I defy the lie we should live. Live. Give. Give in. Give life a chance. I will. I’m taking back the power.