03

Tuesday:
The pangs of living frugally felt deeply. Shedding layers and dressing up in sheens of sweat. Pilgrimage through city bustling with wealth and material to the mecca of the air conditioned theater; for a mere thirteen dollars you can escape your troubles. The only blessing from a life opulence is the redemption two free admissions to an AMC-created fantasy world. Reminiscences of past life filled with bound menus, table cloths, napkins, silverware now dirtied with reality of greasy bags, fluorescent lit menu boards, dour service providers, but hey we don’t have to leave a tip!
It’s too much, too soon. Shaking off your old life is easier said than done; even a butterfly struggles to emerge from it’s cocoon. Settling for a meager dinner of two appetizers at a mediocre restaurant and feeling grateful for the facsimile of “normality”.
Sticky booths, dim lights a table full of plans and obnoxious noises can’t drown out laughter, musings, witticisms. A rallying cry of: They may take our monies, but they cannae take our wit! (In a Scottish accent of course.)
The solace of empty darkness is denied; mecca’s reaching critical mass today and latecomers are forced to congregate at the front. No matter, within ten minutes real life slips away, the buttery opiates enter the blood stream, vision is enthralled with colourful critters cracking jokes and pushing the sadness at bay.
Two hours later, permanent smiles abound, the lights seem brighter, better, more hopeful.
Thursday:
Perfectly roasted chicken. A delightful salad dressing made from orange juice, honey, and dijon. Brightly coloured blanket from Kenya, cool green grass, somehow a movie under the stars, interrupted by the chiming of the church bells feels more intimate than any theater.
Friday:
Pride week. Smiling at strangers–at least they’re kind. A boy with cherub curls croons sweetly every few hours. Spilt beans, quick cover up. A back room that is stifling, a work place that is infinitely cool.
Home, groceries for the next two weeks. Money dwindling already. Β Tea smelling of apples, leaves a buttery coating in the mouth. Feeling left out, envious, suspicious. Imagining (or so one hopes) of daggers in the back, words that cut, outings where one is not wanted.
Why? Why? Why?
Today's featured image is of Mirai Chan by Kawashima Kotori
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2 thoughts on “03

    • Ha, I use to dabble in it a lot more but have slowly stopped. I was trying to imitate Sylvia Plath here but it’s flattering that you think so!

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