in defence of living

-she's sitting, alone, on a concrete block, stranded in the middle of a wasteland
​-she's counting objects: ​[one - a plastic fork, one tine missing] [two - a discarded trainer, shoelace detached] [three - a picture, ripped up into one... two... three - no, four - pieces]
-the sun is rippling along the creases of her back and neck as tide against sand
-is being here any less absurd than being anywhere else?
​-she is stretching herself out on the block, watching birds spin fleetingly across the sky
​-there should be, she is considering detachedly, a philosophical basis for this moment
​-thoughts ensue, although she is not quite in control of them, nor is she trying to become so
​-there is not, she concludes, a philosophical basis for this moment
​-she's watching a ladybird crawling laboriously up the concrete block. it will never reach the top
-this is an irony which amuses her
-is this narcissism? egoism? amour-propre? does it make any difference?
​-it's been a while since she last felt that if there's a choice between cataclysm and a cup of coffee she'd rather be in costa
​-she is wondering, quite slowly and quite lazily, if she must, in fact, mind that there is no philosophical basis for this moment
​-this moment feels, at least, like it justifies its outcome
​-or is this just an exercise in subjectivity?
​-shut up and feel the sun against your skin
-lying here is a lie that'll survive a few hours and a suntan