Appetite for Distraction – Another Day.

He wakes up. It is an hour later than it was the day before. He is still irritated the the clock change sneaked up on him unawares on Saturday evening when he was quietly enjoying jazz on the radio and reading a book about religion. Surely if there is a God then there is only a Trickster God who would go and play with the limited time of a man so. He drives through the morning and it is dark, no sunrise just yet. He returns to his house as if he had never left. He still cannot find his cell phone it is his work cell phone and he is crippled with guilt and shame at losing it because he is sure that it is in his car somewhere but he cannot find it in his car anywhere. He picks  up food from his house and wanders into work. He wanders by car and by bus and by train. Every day his journey is like a movie title. He reads some Walt Whitman. He reads the beautiful poetry of Walt Whitman. He is tired as soon as he arrives in work. He is unshaven. He is unshowered. He feels his stink like a cloud round his body and he is ashamed of it. He does some work and he talks to colleagues and he has some lunch and he does some more work and then the show itself that he works on is very busy and once again he earns his salary in the condensed time of one hour like he does every day and feels bad about it and feels that he could have done better. Then his stomach stabs with pain as he leaves work and he thinks that it may have been the mayonnaise he took from the work fridge to moisten up his lunch bagel. He now regrets this as he thought that the mayonnaise was fine but it seems that it was not fine unless he has been attacked by the tofu turkey or the bagel or the avocado or the tomato but he doesn’t think it is any of these things. Maybe someone has poisoned their mayonnaise in the fridge, but then made sure that they were immune to it’s kiss, much like in The Princess Bride. He thinks this as he aches on the way home on the train and the bus and cramped in his car where he still cannot find his phone. He gets home and he lies in bed and he feels sorry for himself and then he drinks some medicine and then he has some yoghurt and then he slowly begins to feel a little better and after lying in the cool dark listening to the radio and playing a bit of XCOM and calling someone he loves and then getting a call from someone he may love one day he feels at peace as much as he has felt at peace today which isn’t much. He reads about World War II. It seems that it is going to be even more horrendous than World War I. He goes to sleep.

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The Sleepcoat League

Armchair anthropologist, sometime scribe, freelance philosopher, amateur artist, part-time poet, musical maven, alliteration aficionado.

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