Monday, 26 September 2011
OF GUNS AND FOUR-FOUR TIME
I wake up after five hours of sleep feeling robbed and cast aside….picked clean, angry. I want to throw things and listen to them shatter. I want to say something spiteful to someone who doesn’t deserve it. I am not: brave, philosophical, kind, reasonable or
even particularly sane. I want to hurt something back.
I accept and adjust and accommodate this new order of complete uncertainty. I tell myself that I have no option but to be patient, but this morning I feel like an animal about to chew off it’s own leg to escape a trap.
I’m beyond pissed.
I give the phone wide berth. I don’t answer email. There is a raging two-year old inside me. She just might own a gun. And while she can rampage through my apartment, I have enough self-control left to know she shouldn’t be going walkies.
In a while, I go back to bed. I wake the second time out of dream of being embraced by a friend. We are, bizarrely, dressed as pirates. We are holding each other, swaying slightly, like waltzing, four-four time. And it feels really good.
And it’s so very much worse than being angry.
The never-mores, they come and they go. Please. Let this one go quickly.