I’m really uncoordinated today. Worried about the tan shoes, pink tank, brown sweater, black coat, giant black bag. It doesn’t go. This irritates me.
I’ve run out of food in my room, and the wind is somehow cutting through my multicoloured scarf. I’m catching a cold. Hot boy walking next to me is talking, but since he doesn’t have more than two brain cells in his head, it’s easy to tune him out and just look at him. A dimple flashes, and I nod at him. Satified, he natters on. No doubt about the last time he got drunk, or this weekend’s game. Seriously, does no one have stories outside those two?
My career is heading downhill, I can’t seem to hold on. I know nothing, less than nothing, and what I know is probably wrong. Mendel’s laws are overthrown, stupidity is upheld as a virtue, epigenetics and cancer. My horizons are broadening, the land shifts beneath my feet and I am barely keeping my head over the water. Nothing fits right. I’ve hit the dreaded 60kgs.
The world is changing. I want coffee. No one makes chai here, and I just want to return to the womb. But here I am, sharing personal space with a random guy who has nothing but a few genes and a whole lot of harmones going for him, politely pretend-listening, but really cataloguing everything that isn’t the way it ought to be.
Patch of ice. My head was turned towards the hot guy. On the sidewalk, looking up at a flustered, concerned him, ice below.
I don’t think I have the energy to pick me up again.
—
Not quite fiction, but it isn’t all fact either. The boundaries blur.
Nigel Tomm said,
February 25, 2009 at 12:30 am
I’m Nigel Tomm and I think I know what you feel.
poison said,
February 26, 2009 at 4:24 pm
you should watch ‘idiocracy’! http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Idiocracy
Jake said,
March 4, 2009 at 9:03 am
Paul Simon would understand.
“Its a still life water color,
Of a now late afternoon,
As the sun shines through the curtained lace
And shadows wash the room.
And we sit and drink our coffee
Couched in our indifference,
Like shells upon the shore
You can hear the ocean roar
In the dangling conversation
And the superficial sighs,
Are the borders of our lives.
And you read your Emily Dickinson,
And I my Robert Frost,
And we note our place with book markers
That measure what we’ve lost.
Like a poem poorly written
We are verses out of rhythm,
Couplets out of rhyme,
In syncopated time
Lost in the dangling conversation
And the superficial sighs,
Are the borders of our lives.”
There’s another verse. Listen to it. Beautiful song.