circumambulation

This week has already brought three changes of scene; another lying - nay, shuffling, in wait.

It is always this way, is it not? Ebb and flow, surplus and deficit, wanting and wasting. But even with the exaggerated misanthropy that seems to wrestle my present: each letting the other win; even with the endless (if not tireless) movement on feet (being only carriage); even then. How to stroll away from this box, this room, this universe of one's own?

Why do we cling when tomorrow we will not know one other? What does it matter if you have too much or too little of everything and nothing or the reverse? To be calm, to not be obtuse. To be firm, to not be stubborn. To love, to not crave. To seek happiness, and finding it, to accept happiness. To stay, to stay, to stay.

I could tell you that my heart shattered into seven hundred and twenty-three perfect pieces of pale blue crystal today. I could tell you that's just how it was, my tungsten wore out and decided to leap. I could tell you that when it happened it was frost, it was gall, it was midnight, it was innards strung up with steel wool.

But my heart (bless the little fellow); it no longer plays those parts. Its response to these sudden death changes in script (indicated by that fatal ka-ching!) is a mildly annoyed and mostly bored puff of smoke that spirals and spells 'Next, please' on my face; on my hands.

We Don't Make The Papers

The old lady does not want to be helped up. She glares through her thickset glasses and her daughter, now over forty, looks embarrassed. The girl sitting nearest, also embarrassed, springs up and disappears. There is a stray, unaccountable note of reproof in the air, and the bus, like any red-handed child, finds the shortest way to a flamboyant, casual exit.

Bringing up the rear are seven gentlemen, of average height. Their average, that is. One appears to be asleep, even through the frequent and violent sternutations of his companion. The third, also stern, glares at the clearly drugged boy on his left while the two nearest the window giggle at nearly everything, but the man with the briefcase doesn't mind at all.

Having the faculties of perception and imagination rather keen and muddled in her, the girl knows that this, this is how she was to live. Writing these histories of no consequence; warming up to the world's invisible things. The man next to her, also elderly, clutches his yellow bag under the sagging, now asleep, chin. He has on an iron grey suit, black tie and socks, with a vest of a between shade. He may be dreaming of school.

Exchanging frequent winks with most of his female passengers' reflections, hanging by a wrist, is the conductor. An amber traffic light does to him what red purportedly does to decorative bulls in Spain. The driver hurls out abuses at his lustful racking of the bus's haunches, but secretly decides to keep him.

Of the several thousand people one saw everyday, she remembered only the unlikely. The ones she loved, also the most unlikely, were not apt to get along. The girl realised all of this, of course, but thought only of the sun on her left that sped out of sight.

social interaction

Take the time between aching facial muscles and taut cranial, to thank god for the few who don't need smiles, nods or conversation.

Deus Faber

Oh look, he come with snake.