Slipping on ice

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.

4 responses to “Slipping on ice

  1. I’m Nigel Tomm and I think I know what you feel.

  2. 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. 🙂

  3. I like the Simon and Garfunkel response above.

    I think everyone eventually gets to a point where Steinbeck’s old idiom from the Grapes of Wrath is the only thing that comes to mind, “Man proposes, and God disposes.”

    Nothing ever goes according to plan. You swing according to the state of the innings.

    Also, I’m sure he helped get you back on your feet. That’s another lesson. The people around you help. Let them.

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