May 1, 2015

two nights ago, i fell for a truck as i drove past, taking yearning looks at my rearview mirror as i curved along a darkened road.
i like trucks; i like them even more at night. i like the big ones, with a sign that says road train at the back with flaps on the base to keep back all the dust and stones they kick up, breaking my windscreen each tiny, mirco, bite, each chink, invisible, shatter.
i like them with lights along their sides, illuminating power and those with optimus prime heads are the best – i point them out to myself and john, if he’s next to me, and sometimes he hears.

of late i have rediscovered chrysanthemum flowers brewed in hot water, but eyes follow my bottle and lips comment, and i wish my golden liquids were invisible. chrysanthemum flowers and tea eggs take on new meanings and i missed when they were normal. three people in thirty six hours asked where i am going next and i become a cause of concern for not knowing.

my fluffy jacket is in the car, along with i suspect my cracked waterbottle. the bottle is definitely cracked; its location suspect. i wrap my wet bath towel tighter around me; my brain says it’s too cold to venture outside for the return of being warm again; maybe later i will be desperate enough to override my brain. maybe after this.

i looked up the word rusticated recently, and noted the important people who had been rusticated, and why. life has changed so much since. me have changed too. in fact i change every five minutes depending on which tab on the screen i am looking at.

i am cold. the skin has spoken. i will get the jacket.

(but let me postscript by saying today i learnt what flaying is, and the story of the seven brothers in 2 maccabees.)


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