Fishing

Warning: This post will probably not make any sense to you. The only reason I left it up is that I have a policy with myself of not deleting things after I post them.

Crying outwith the chapel. Dark falls. Deep blue to deep black, the library is in an upside down aquarium. I gaze, gaze between the slats hoping to see tropical fish, hoping to trip. That vertigo. Rows of books and silence and scratchy, tappy, breathy, flicky, clicky stuff. Dizziness in the gut which twitches and hopes too for nothingness and a relief. But escape is in the future. Months of deadlines away. I cry inside. Why does life demand taking a garlic press to the brain and the emotions, why must we strip ourselves like gooey rubber trees, why must it hurt. Even the tears are oozed, trickling, gasping half-formed, bubbly. Invisible, inside, quiet. Not there at all. Gaze again at the stripey blue sky the lantern windows the heavy black shadows striding along the pavement. Turn and clinch, breathing, reaching for something inside that is a must and a will and a will do, turning down that over emotion, turning down that silliness. Searching for a focus or a light of a guncrack. Swimming blindly among those bright yellowelectric tropical fish. Hands flapple and feel slimy wetness, all is ungraspable, untakeable, tails and wings slapping and smacking against temples, hands toolless tools. Kick at the bottom but it’s the top, heave and twist no need for air. Nothing to push or pull, swimming through the city at evening. Head crashes, scratch through the slats, open the eyes and see a computer screen, words spread like messy diarrhoea. Wipe them up and dispose of them into cyberspace. Close the document and open a newer, realler one, not on fish, but on stats.

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