Several suits, a sparkly police man, and a fatigues wearing soldier walk into a coffee shop…
Sorry, I haven’t come up with a punchline, but all three of the above have come and gone while I’ve sat here trying my best to get back into my head, into a space I feel I’ve been locked out of, something very much like hearing the door click shut behind you just as you realize you’ve left your keys on the counter.
I’m cold. The air is thick and jagged and I’m having trouble making much use of it. My fingers shake more from that and the exposure than they do from the caffeine, only sips into the second cup, dull ache creeping everywhere, creeping from place to place as I try not to shiver.
I have a feeling like the morning of december 25th has come and no one else cares to celebrate. All the scuttle and rush, so much expectation, and you’re the only one in your pajamas at one as mom and dad have gone off to work and all your friends can’t fathom why you weren’t at school that day. It isn’t so much disappointment as there’s a great deal of pouting that comprises that feeling, this is more earnest, like the surprise come from losing a limb. You stare at the severed end, not fully able to reconcile the stump with the missing inches of flesh meant to continue on after.
The sense isn’t entirely without its uses. Feeling this way gives me an indication of how to write the protagonist’s sentiment in the book on which I’m working. I don’t have to guess or affect a series of reactions and thoughts for him, I can nearly copy, or as close to copy as the translation from thought to written fiction comes.
The sensation has it’s psychological roots. It has possible causes in new medications and chemical stimuli, allergies and car exhaust, asthma and corticosteroids. But knowing the moon’s pull causes the waves doesn’t make one any better at surfing while he’s atop the crest.
Writing helps. Grimes, Gotye, Gabriel, and Eno help. Forcing a deep breath helps, though the effort makes me feel like an accordion that’s leather has given way to fatigue and dry rot.
At least I don’t wheeze. Imagining Kafka’s Metamorphoses as the change from man to musical instrument is really something best left to Weird Al. It takes a more satisfied mind than mine to make good comedy.