britaniavance
Turning the other cheek. Cold shoulders and cold hearts. Made of stone and ice and almost impossible to break.
Break out the blowtorch.
My brain feels a loft
Somewhere above the clouds
So distant that I don't even know what it's like to make contact anymore
When was I ever human?
How can I be like them?
I was overjoyed with the promise of a new life, a new wife, a new strife to keep me awake at night and not your sweet-but-all-too-distant face.
As the crowd pushed against me, tossing me like a merciless wave on rocky shores (and me with no shoes, the genius), beating me over with sweat, beer and sex drives with no where to go, I looked overhead, wishing, wishing that the vents overhead, the pipes, the metal, the steel enforcements, would come crashing down on all of them, all of us, and wash us away into oblivion, down the dark the sank alleyways of the city, forever forgotten and never found.
It was probable that things were going to be okay.
That I was overreacting, letting my brain get the best of me, make the worse of my situation and blame everyone else in the world but myself for my misfortune.
It was also probable that whatever Higher Power ruled the universe just didn't like me all that much.
There's something charming about a tea kettle.
The way it whistles when it's finished, a convenient spout, a cute design in its construction, the paint or lackthereof.
It's a helluva lot more charming than heating up your tea water in the microwave.
There was no escape in sight.
The house lights dimmed into darkness, the screen in front of their eyes lit up, reminding all present that they would be prisoners to someone else's mind for the next two hours, pained by the aged, sinking seats, separated by the obtrusive armrests between them, restricting all from reaching anything beyond first base.
There was only one option.
Pretend to use the lavatory and never return.