Journeying

The train chugs by, rattling on the tracks

laid down by previous states of mind.

Past half-remembered dreams, a dozen nightmares

and rare wishes that just might have a chance to come true.

The passengers rise early, making their way

to the breakfast cart,

eager to see what’s on the menu:

a fresh glass of nostalgic tears,

a slice of bitter wisdom,

a bowl of aspirations

and a dusting of hope.

They tuck in, delighting

at the sky-blue pink of dawn outside.

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I don’t remember the title, but it’s blue…

There are times when my palm is super glued to my face.

I can’t even look at another person for fear of something idiotic

escaping their lips and causing tears to spring from my eyes,

wide with incredulity. Said a person in a bookshop,

this morning to their phone, ‘Siri, what books are in this bookshop?’

‘Here’s what I’ve come up with,’ dutiful Siri replied

while her search results loaded and the asker

gazed idly at the bookshelves, an inch or so away.

But of course, Siri could not see inside the bookshop,

and so could only guess. ‘That’s no good. I need to know

exactly what books this bookshop sells.’

‘Here’s what I’ve come up with,’ she repeats. I swear

this time her digital voice is filled with resignation.

Naked reflection

In the mirror, I don’t see myself. I see my plain face, worn eyes and body frame (Summer: tabloids bleating ‘beach body, beach body’. Pressure. Desperation. Hunger. Winter: recipe ideas that feed twelve guests. Temptation. Indulgence. Guilt.) But that’s not actually me. That self doesn’t exist in the mirror. In fact, I’m not even sure it exists at all anymore. I’ve been swallowed by a giant beast and squashed by everything else it consumes. I’m so far down that I can no longer see the light from its mouth. But perhaps there’s still a chance that something in here can help me. I should start searching.

Playing cards

I search through the deck of cards, upsetting the neatness of the stack. It doesn’t matter, I can tidy them later; line them up and place them all in order, making sure everything is correct, that the story still flows.

Out of line is the only way I can see the stats clearly, see my qualities measured against each other.

Can I really call them qualities?

I don’t know, but at least I have proof that they exist. That I exist. Until my small house of cards tumbles to the floor.