Suffocation. Hazy vision. Lifeless limbs. Drowsiness. Lapse of memory. Where am I? What was happening to me? Heart beat quickened. Pulse raced. Lungs clamoured for air. Panic stricken, I realised I had to swim to stop myself from drowning. I thrashed my arms and legs in desperation. I felt the rustle of papers. I tried to resurface for air by pushing with my arms; hundreds and thousands of them. The mysterious Devil’s triangle of bills pulled me further down and I disappeared in the unexplained abyss.
My eyes flew open. What the …? I slipped my hand under the pillow to retrieve the mobile phone. It was 3:30 am. What just happened? I realised that I had gone to sleep the previous night with a burdened mind after totaling the bills I had to pay on the coming Wednesday when I would receive my fortnightly pay. What can I say about my present and possibly my future? A life sabotaged by bills. Overseas, it was difficult to make ends meet at the end of the month as I received a monthly income. In Australia, the ordeal of coping with expenses becomes increasing difficult towards the end of the fortnight.
Route for escape seems impossible. Bankruptcy could be around the corner. Alright, I may be exaggerating a little. My doom was synonymous with the vulnerable and inexperienced young soldiers of Wilfred Owen. Soldiers who were forced to fight on the front lines of the battlefield. When I heard LunchMoney Lewis’ song ‘Bills’, I did not feel like an alien living all by itself on Planet Mars. There were others sailing in the same boat, and although I do not have a poet willing to sing lines like, “The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;/ And bugles calling for them from sad shires,” for me, I have no problems considering ‘Bills’ as an anthem for a doomed me.
A Writer's Exposé 