Wrish

Today I flew with virgin, it was my first.

Virgin has a sense of humour, the quips came down with every transmission sharpening a smile apon my face. Virgin gives no food, virgin makes you walk in the rain. Virgin are about half the price, backpackers and single mothers with screaming infants can afford Virgin.

“Virgin, keeping the air fare!” Look at me, I’m billboard.

Recently, the housing for my axolotl has turned to a distinctly off shade of green, an algal bloom has fostered water which almost completely obscures the happy little guy from view. What good is an axolotl if you can’t see it sitting about displaying axolotl-like properties?

Plans are underway for the production of a more aesthetically suitable enclosure, it will be a happy little multi purpose piece of furniture, who says I don’t give any love.

This weekend failed to live up to expectations.

An excessively cynical disposition had convinced me that a weekend away would result in barely liveable moments of needless sibling conflict, as well as extended periods of self imposed solitude; it was not the case. For the second weekend in a row, I became heavily intoxicated, and that was the least pleasant part of my experience.

I decided to be a thinker.

The make of my beach is a sickly mixture of small shells and brown, dirty sand which doesn’t lend itself to structurally sound castles or sculptures. Despite this, I worked, building a pile, one which youthful imagination easily formed into a magnificent mountain. I knew before I started that the tide was encroaching on my masterpiece, that soon, it would crack, the steep alcove formed by the eroding wash would break under the immense weight of my false idol so painstakingly cast at its helm. And so it did, and I didn’t care.

A sand castle is a relationship that you start, with knowledge that shortly, it will end. The sand is your life which you draw slowly into the pile whose core is the subject of your infatuation. The moments spent patching the cracking wounds in your hill are those spent grasping onto the final shreds of your reality. And sunburn is the emotional scar, that stings when you touch it, aches when you think about it, but fades as the tides of time spread the graduals of your life back across the sandy landscape.

There is no insight here.

I am often mocked for my galactophagous tendencies. Convinced I am certain to perish from some kind of malnutrition; my well-doing co-workers make quips at my expense. I like to imagine that they are looking out for me; they seem to believe that, if incurred with a sufficiently apparent sense of guilt over my lack of substantial intake, I will fall in line and consume any of the interesting array of foods, which, they themselves, use for fuel.

galactophagous
     a. Feeding on milk

I admit that relying solely on the lactative excretions of the friendly bovine may not be the most intelligent nutritional supplement, but damn, it’s convenient. I can have lunch in the time that it takes to prepare and consume a glass of heated water fermented with tea leaves. Not to mention that milk is basically the only free consumable provided to my fellow staff, if I can save money, I do.

Milk is the blood of life, or something equally poetic. Definition provided for my sole reader, who I love in a way that is special and weird.

There is nothing so inspiring as the sense of pain alone, it breaks down all the barriers, and makes your mind its home. Defeating conscious efforts, to ward off all effect, this pain will well inside you and leave you derelict.

You thought freedom would take it, away from out of sight, but nothing is so free, as the embrace after the fight. I never thought I’d see it, for what it never was, but fending off the anger is only half the cause.

I still don’t know what drives me, through each and every day, I know that I’m too weak, to send it all away. I wept over the moments, that seemed to burn inside, I find now that I wept for a missing morning tide.

I have always liked tears, there is something so sublime about a single tear suspended in the air by the instantaneous consideration for its purpose. Every tear brings me a smile, even if it is masked by a more dramatic outward emotion.

Tears become a convenient tool for seeking attention at a young age, the child learns that tears result in the comfortable suppression of negative feelings; hunger, pain, loneliness. Tears gradually become intrinsically linked to sadness, depression, fear and the need for assistance.

As a child I would cry at much, for I found tears to be my defence mechanism against a certain evil. Fight as I may, even now, when I least wish for the sensation of tearing, it comes, a flood of saline fluid. The limit which my ducts can drain away is quickly exceeded, the remaining droplets gush over the lip of my eyelids, wetting the cheeks below.

There is no shame in a shed tear, for if there was, all I have would be shame.

Each moment can be broken into an infinite number of discrete periods of time.

Each second holds within it an eternity, a life could be made and lost in the fraction of a second that it takes for a neuron to fire its electrical pulse down my arm. The instantaneous convulsion of my muscle, which draws my finger into contact with the keyboard, might mean the collapse of a star.

If you sought to break the fundamental physical rules of our existence, the time that my keyboard waits for the key to come to a rest at its depression, could draw the creation and conclusion of a finite universe.

What do we do with all these moments? Each one appends itself to the last, each one increments the number of moments in which I have loved, hated, listened, learned and lived, and each eludes me, for by the time it has occurred, it is already gone.

To a moment that never was, and a moment that always will be.