All the songs of my life sting at the edges and sit down like rocks at the pit of my stomach. So does my prose, blue-tinged and ultimately devoid of hope. I live with the feeling that, innately, there is nothing worth bothering about in the world. The feeling that perceived goodness can and will come back to bite you. And that evil will fill you with a sense of nostalgia.
Children play merrily with a football at the parking of my house. Two of them have identical haircuts, all of them have no care in the world. Their mothers observe them from haphazardly parked cars, sporting classic "I am a working mommy " short haircuts. But, why the hell am I observing their hair? Why, WHY am I so acutely aware of the fact that I'm observing their hair?
I look at the scene, take in the sounds of laughter, the smell of summer, their hurried motions, the feel of warm bread and salt on my hands, trying to drown out the awareness of it all. The football smashes into the closing door, and for a moment, I have suceeded.
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