Is my phone vibrating or narrating? A lousy story of itself or something more, like the making of plans that sit me on Thursday evening trains. The seat behinding me is reminding me I'm awake and have been all day. I've been busy thinking about things I don't care for, such as percentages. About eighty percent of the talk I do bores me. To put it another way, I'm not a chronic worrier. Reading my scattered mind on the web, the lack of hidden depths could surprise you. I've no dark secrets although I must disclaim this post was sponsored by the November rain.
Your room once was the deep forest and still wants to uncurl itself.
That's what my mother once told me before she wrapped me up in bed. I asked her what she meant and she replied with a level of assurance I had yet to see outside of her.
It doesn't really matter. The most important thing is that I'm already thinking about watching some more television.
All I could see was the ceiling and all I could think about was my second nose. No one else had an extra one, why did I? I'll ask my mum tomorrow, I thought as I closed my eyes. But tomorrow never came. I passed away peacefully in my sleep and so avoided all the witnessing of everything continuing to arrange itself between recognisable forms for years to come.
It's better that I died. The last thing I'd want to do years later is watch two policewomen accost a homeless man for sitting alone on a high street. I wouldn't want to watch it play out like a film, as I sip a cup of tea. The man telling a stern face of the law he doesn't want to move, that he shouldn't have to.
A police van arrives and two policemen get out, relaxed as if browsing for furniture. They're chatting, presumably about how they should exercise their power. A passer-by starts shouting at the homeless man, calling him a fucking junkie, whilst another films the scene on his phone.
The first becomes less a passer-by and more someone who's chosen to get involved. The police lead him away so he can pass by somewhere else. On departure he shouts at the cameraman, asking why he's filming the police with this fucking junkie. If the question wasn't so rhetorical, the answer might have been
One policeman puts on a blue glove because he thinks it will protect him from disease. The footage shows the homeless man being put in the back of the van but ends before the policepeople convene on the curb to chat. The women patrol off and the men drive the cage away. Fortunately, I died long before this could take place.
I will never ever jump out on you. I will lie about your sofa, ceilings and mind, if you don't mind. I'll creep in circles for longer than I'll linger under your thumb or arms. I'll say nothing. The only way you can be sure I'm even there, is because I'll consume your toast.
Every afternoon chunks of lethal metal spill out of the city, and they're all mad at each other. The evening commute can be frustrating behind the wheel, but in this traffic I find escapism. My bicycle peddles get me past Sat Navs telling the poor to take the next left towards ludicrous APR and the rich in leather seats they love more than their ex-wives. It's my window of life, away from days reserved at a desk and nights of undeserved rest. I pass Ubers stuck up each other's asspipes and feel the wind in my face as I dart by cars and buses crawling in a slow motion notion. It feels good overtaking something 10 times my length. They all want to be me or I just think they do. I don't care which.
Throw acorns at tree trunks, you growing dandelion. Show to a stranger your strength, for it finds a natural conclusion to something now quietly fantastic. Let emerge your elephant lighter, burn a goofy napkin, and watch it ash to the dreams of another duckling. For this catches neither the start nor the end of the tethered lily pads floating hard on tarmac. It's more tarmac of shiny dust than of crying working hearts. We find coverage in an unknown. Until we loose it, again.
When an April day suggests summer is coming, the aroma of expectation is often sweeter than the warmth at the season's height. I took full advantage of the beautiful day by staring at a database with Julie from accounts, unironically saying things like
that's the £7,000 we need to isolate
Julie would nod like a prick. So I left. There's no better place to escape the city than the square in the centre that badly masks grey with a patch of green. On the wall sat the centrepiece to this love story, like a lonely flower. I sat down at a distance too close for a stranger, but too far for a friend.
I was in love with you, you know.
She continued to stare at the ground, as I nervously ran my fingers between each other, not knowing where they should settle at a time like this. It had been around two years since I had last seen her. I nervously blurted noises like a donkey with stage fright.
I've seen how sad you are on twitter. I always thought we could have been sad together. Or we could be happy like you are on Instagram.
The tourists and pigeons that were everywhere weren't constrained by a lunch break. They ambled around, avoiding each other, aimlessly searching for food. I looked up, to hear what she had to say about my madness. But she wasn't there. Because she never was. And neither was I. Because I was on the way back to my desk.
I went scrolling through Facebook and no matter how many times I refreshed newsfeed, it said
We have nothing to show you right now, cunt
I thought this was weird because I have three hundred thousand friends. I also thought the use of the word “cunt”, would be the kind of thing Facebook would avoid. I worried I was missing out on bespoke brand content and humorous reinforcement of my political views. I started to shake as I worried how acquaintances were, if they were doing okay in their lives.
The radio blares love and hurt to a room where everyone talks only of ancillary revenue. It's a place that makes me care about the stupidest shit. Sometimes I open my mouth and a sentence with the word liaise comes out and it won't go back in. Sometimes I close my mouth and grope a spreadsheet for one or seven hours. I spend the day around people who either care or pretend to care deeply about ancillary revenue. They're all so bloody insecure because everyone is so bloody insincere. The whole thing is ridiculous and everyone pretends it isn't. I want to lie on the grass in the sun.
I was checking the latest Instagrams when my phone went all soft. My finger went through the touchscreen and out the other side, as if I were fingering a generously filled jam doughnut. The phone was turning to liquid and the latest Instagrams were looking blurrier than usual. They were all over my hands and dripping into the carpet. I called tech support but they said they only deal with software issues. I'll have to try and fix it tomorrow because I need my phone to send messages and do other important things.