Slow, Futile Constructions

Due to the temperature outside, sometimes water will attempt great feats of collaboration, building upside down ladders to the ground, perhaps tired of merely throwing itself violently, hoping for an easier, softer and more pleasant route.
I sat and watched the icicles form for a little while. Beadlets of water, attempting to cling and freeze to the end would stretch, screaming, groping, then shuddering would fall, and break into little pieces of water on the concrete below. Then the next would try. Then the next, and on, bravely sacrificing themselves to build this city, or perhaps merely victims of a determined future who were hopeful that they would be one of the lucky ones, the ones who sit comfortably back, scaffolding and roadway for the great many who they watch plunge to their screaming, horrible deaths.

I must say, I am not entirely convinced that we are not all mere beads of water, running down the most logical path, success being merely a matter of luck and circumstance. I like to think that we are not, but I cannot say for sure.
I, for one, don't see anything wrong with this. Droplets of water forming into icicles is a perfectly beautiful thing.

My house

The curtains were tired, hanged til they could hang no more. The carpets were all ashamed and ruined from being walked on, defaced and stained, even urinated on a few times over the last several years. The windows shuddered and banged when the wind blew, hoping it would break and kill them, knowing it would not be long. The pipes in the floors and walls groaned, sadly, so old and tired. 

Occasionally a doorknob would fall off a door, as if the door had leprosy, and as I grasped it's hand in greeting I would suddenly find myself holding the detached hand of a door, who was too terrified and shocked to start screaming yet. I would frequently rush to try and get the knob back on as quickly as possible, feeling quite bad for the door, who could only stare silently, tears streaming down it's face. 

If my toaster were brave, and tried to  run away with the vacuum cleaner, our electric blanket, any lamp we may own... they would not make it far. It would be like a group of geriatric paraplegics trying to escape their hospital. They would surely die.

Because entropy is in full swing, in this place. Sit a moment, and appliances will die around you, gutters will crash to the ground outside, the pipes will burst beneath your feet. Like facing an extremely slow murderer, a person must continue to move out of the way, sighing in annoyance, that they might survive another moment.

A picture of a flower

Because

I am a mountain, packed neatly into this tiny mole-hole, and sometimes, a tiny piece of music will shake me at my core, threatening imminent release, an inevitable disaster. Sometimes when I am singing along obnoxiously, alone, in my car, to a song because it feels good, I will lose my breath, and not be able to catch it back. Secretly, I am not a rock. My wife already knows this. I try to hide it from her, but with a mere smirk and a sentence, she can bring these walls down and destroy me. I am no match for that.


I am soft inside like the back of a baby's head. Don't tell.

And that's some of the rest of the story....

When I was young, I used to imagine that I would one day be nobody, and that I would fail at things that I eventually would hope to achieve.  At the time, I had no hopes of achievement, as this would certainly be merely feeding the flames of the inevitable bitterness. I only hoped one day that I would be maimed severely, or blinded or something- nothing that would make me too unattractive, but might heighten my other senses or force me to overcome it by gaining amazing skill or strength in a specific area. I had never watched the Special Olympics. I thought that they would be glamorous, because the guy in the wheelchair that I knew, Victor, was so nice, and had such huge arms. 

When I was young, I used to think that grownups were entirely fallible, and frequently made mistakes.

When I was young, I would dream at night that somebody, always a grownup, would be driving a car in which I was a passenger, and they would always drive me off a cliff, because they were too busy  reaching down for lipstick or something. Once I dreamed that I saved myself from Native Americans on a beach, who had tied me  to a chair, then, feeling quite proud of my cleverness, got into my mom's car, and we promptly went over a cliff. Sometimes in mid-air, as we were plummeting to our certain doom, I would scream to my fellow passengers, reassuringly "Don't worry. It's only a dream."

Same fLY Same LEaF

Fly on a LEaF