Skip to main content

19


Please, he said.
don’t kill me like this.
Take me to 13.
I dont care about protocol, and if after 13 i am to go, i will not lift a finger. Forget about the flowers. Just go to 13.
slowly the sun moved that day. How is it that time can stretch so? what is the mechanism by which this is ticking?
Slowly, some would say lazily. Like the odd drops falling over Budapest that time, so long ago. hitting the large umbrellas with resounding plops. All was possible then. Only the word was missing. The word was not yet even formulated.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Rotate ruminations

Mean looks mean. Curiosity can be hemmed in, but not drowned. To accomodate it is necessary to allow a free rein, within the boundaries of the concept. This is modern, useful approach. This is pragma, when results and not appearances matter. You can forget the guilt trip, it does not compute in this environment. Just look out for the green, ever moody, likely to shift on a whim.  You got to work with me baby. Don’t make the mistake of thinking.  This is more about feeling. A touchy subject I know. And Aldred…no let’s not go there. I must obey the rules. I will obey the rules. The rules are mine. I rule. Think for yourself. Feelings are overrated. This feed is monitored. 

1

It pisses me off. You know what I mean? The constant to-and-fro. The mimicking. The mediocrity. The shallow sages. Here they were, perfectly happy to waste it all. And you. What did YOU do about it? Me, I need to get it out. Me, I need to absorb it all. Please, don't keep me waiting. Let me know how you are dealing with it. You know the drill. Let it rip.

Is sharing caring?

  Looking out the window. It looks gray. After a lot of hours, the family comes home, one by one. As they left, I lay in bed. When they get home, I'm in bed. They look a little longingly at my pillows, warm quilts, piles of magazines and books. Maybe they're thinking they'd like to swap with me. I'd love to switch. Updating my status on FB, getting some comments pretty quickly. People who feel sorry, and who tell of their own accident stories. I've been through that before. When an acquaintance, friend or relative dies, I often hear my friends talk about their own experiences of death. I used to get a little confused by that. I wondered why it felt so important to compare accidents. Or even compete a little in them. Now, with window views of slowly approaching days, I'm struck by another thought. Maybe it's their way of understanding and dealing with difficult things. To relate it to themselves, and their own lives. Perhaps, therefore, sometimes it is easier