State of selves

Limping to the MRT station this morning you see, again, a dog walking w/ broken leg, staring at you; you begin to believe, yet again, that you're the star of a bad movie. Circumstances at lunch cohere: the kitchen serves shrimp -- you're allergic & left to buying a value meal for over 100 pesos, the drink of w/c you tip over, leaving some of you fries swimming. You still owe for those shrimps.

The director of this movie sends you messages thru puddles & steep steps. Pain is a reminder of something significant. You take a pain killer for a calming kind of forgetfulness. Thoughtlessness is key.

You're beginning to understand a new kind of fear, the type that comes when nothing of yourself seems troubled save for everyone that keeps you calm, who, before your eyes, begin dissolving amid a whirl of expectations & things silly, like responsibility.

A core dependent on the centripetal, you lean harder on only 1 good leg. The aircon doesn't work; your undershirt is thick. The coffee canister's newly filled; you've run out of sugar. You begin to write something; you've lost sight of your own point, & you wonder if it would've mattered at all to begin w/.

For what tomorrow entails you say:

1. Don't give up.

2. Hang in there.

3. This is important/nothing; you will be great.

But for now, you settle w/ banging your head on the proverbial wall, w/ hiding in the cliche cave, w/ running off far & away w/ only the company of a calmer sense of breathing. For just a moment, away w/ perspective, perceptions, or anything akin to thought!

Cuz what is it all really but just constructs of a rattled mind, the realm in w/c silly directors work & play for the title genius. 

Salt to wound, you raise a middle finger. Someone understands.