Not a mouth or nose to be seen.
I follow the arrows with my shopping basket held in a gloved hand.
Making sure I avoid contact with the rest of the human race.
Outside, mask removed I breath in a lung full of air.
I fish in my pocket for my keys ready to enter my prison.
Filling the kettle, I place one mug, one plate, one bun.
Before I would have been setting the table for four.
They never failed to turn up rain hail or sleet.
Good company, lots of banter and all three my soul mates.
Now we have to listen to our prison guard, the Prime Minister.
As I empty my groceries from my bag for life.
The words take on a new meaning.
How much life do I have left to live?
I slap my hand and shake this thought away.
My bun and mug of tea usually delicious, tastes of nothing and I leave both unfinished.
I never thought I could feel lonely, but I do.
Ruairi Fallon Mc Guigan’s (1993 Belfast) paintings, prints and objects combine memories, architectural desires, the domestic and his cultural background. Fictional spaces are constructed and distorted in order to convey insight into his political and domestic existence.