“Life is what happens to you while you are busy planning other things.”
- John Lennon
I walk open ended along streets lined by open necked trees that resemble loafers before I even happen to realize that exactly what now rushes in and brushes past my trousers is what I once used to call life. I trudge up and down stairs seeking myself and beseeching the darkness around me to stay dark so that I do not find my time and whereabouts. It is evening now as the winter wind begins to “lay waste my garden”.
What about supper? I rustle up cold and crisp salads with colder wine that sparkle like my tears. Crisp rejections. Crisper deaths. What other words begin with D the Dumbo? Devastation? Desolation? Destruction? All my everything hangs loose as if being seamless is what Winter Collection 2004 is all about. I switch off lights and shut down memories. My old computer cannot take it anymore and turns impersonal.
I keep on chanting the litany of nothingness as my life simmers and sizzles before my whimpers. The fear of disease and the apprehension of relationships that end in the middle of nowhere walk with me in silence. I am suitably impressed. The morning dew rolls off blacktop streets like mercury. I cannot perhaps take it any more.