It’s still there, the outside world. I know it is. It must be.
There are murals out there, like these ones, on the streets of Govanhill.
Paintings on gable ends, the side of buildings, underneath a bridge.
Colour, imagination, messages of hope and wonder and a future we can believe in.
Sometimes I like to paint murals on the walls of my flat.
I might be seeking enlightenment or practising mindfulness, or we might have lost another late goal at home and dropped two more points in the league.
Or I might just have been pished one night and got tore in with the felt tip pens.
You know what it’s like. We’ve all been there.
Helps hide the gravy stains down the wallpaper and curry sauce on the skirting boards too.
I tried drawing a map on the floor once, an easy-to-follow guide for the mice, with arrows and directions and clear signposting all the way to the traps in the kitchen.
But it didn’t work. Their knowledge of cartography was poor, they blatantly ignored stop signals, didn’t even know their left from their right. Idiots.
But the longer I stay at home, the less likely I am to find my way from the couch to the front door.
It’s still there, the front door. I know it is. It must be.
Buried behind mattresses, old newspapers, fax machines and computer monitors, or underneath garden equipment, stray dogs, a wheelbarrow, a tumble drier, a motorbike, probably a forklift and has anyone seen my glasses?
We’ll find that door. I know we will. We have to.