The exception that proves the rule. A blog of short writings from Australia and England.
Thursday, 22 June 2017
How many times have I brushed these teeth, pulled shoes on these feet and walked down this same street? How many times have I passed you by, too scared to look you in the eye, too scared to ask if I could tag along and walk with you a while. None of that's my style. My anxiety has been heaped and piled by bullies ever since I was a child. Now my nerves wouldn't dare allow me to even return your smile, no matter how bad I want to be sucked in by your wiles. Perhaps death is dreaming, consciousness severed and freely streaming, eternally lost, stretched and pressed in the black swarming mess of our collective psychic minds, the universal thoughts disconnected and connected throughout all of time. Perhaps I'll see you there then too, in that pool you'll feel my mind drawing itself to you.