Writing prompt: Pick up a book that is closest to you. Turn to page 55. Use the second sentence on the page as your prompt for today.
**Taken from Anthony Burgess’s A Clockwork Orange**
“So I lay down on this vonny bed, my brothers, and went to very tired and exhausted and hurt sleep.” I read the sentence first in my head, and then whispered it aloud to myself. There was something about this line that resonated with me, particularly as I lay reading by lamplight in my bed, though my life was certainly dichotomous to that of the “ultra-violent” anti-hero of Anthony Burgess’s novel. I was beyond tired, pushed ceaselessly into an exhaustion that prevented me from functioning properly; nonetheless, I had striven to carry on some semblance of a normal life after my second job finished at the end of the day. I went through the motions of making a small dinner for one with my weary eyes half closed and ate in a dream-like state, an action I would completely forget about by the time I pulled myself into bed to try and read a single chapter of whatever novel currently taunted me from my bedside table. On nights like this one, I read each line a dozen times, forgetting what had just happened a few sentences before.
I was tired and exhausted and hurt. Hurt by life, by circumstance, by people. Hurt that I needed to work two jobs to make just enough for rent, for groceries, and to get to the jobs that I loathed so passionately. Hurt that my husband left me to start an adventurous life on the other side of the globe. Hurt that I was never able to have children. That I was trapped in the most vicious cycle. It was one where my deep-seeded hatred for this mundane existence fueled my desire to persevere, so that one day I may be able to prove myself wrong.
But until that day arrives, “I lay down on this vonny bed, my brothers, and went to very tired and exhausted and hurt sleep.” Oh, Burgess. You know me so well. With my eyes shut, I slid the book across the smooth pine surface of the table and flicked the lamp off.