This winter is everlasting. This cold and snow and everything everything everything with it. The land has been monochromatic for so long, all black trees and white snow and concrete roads lined with grey banks that just keep growing
and you think that you need a change, something about(more) this needs to change, but it doesn't because it's everlasting. But you keep having that thought- I need a change, I need a change, I need a change-
and you're sitting across from her at dinner and she's talking about work forever like she always does, and you need a change, you need a change, and haven't we been to this restaurant, like, five times this month? And you need a change,
and on the way home you hit a pothole so bad it rattles your teeth in your skull, and now you're arguing with her, and the car hasn't heated up yet and the world is still dark and cold outside,
and you can't park because the snow, so much snow still, and the argument grows longer as you circle the block again, forever orbiting your home but never landing, and she's really getting on your nerves, and you need a change,
something needs to change,
why won't the world change? It was supposed to change but it didn't.
Hope springs eternal, but this winter is everlasting.(less)
Jenny held the sweet against her cheek trying to make it last. She was afraid that if she moved it around her mouth too much, it would just dissolve away and be gone too soon. She sat in the back seat of the car and looked out the window at the(more) scenery flying past her. It was rare she got a sweet and she wondered why today. One of her favorite day dreams was that she was one of the children that was invited to Willy Wonka's Chocolate factory, but that she was not spoiled or rotten or fat or loud. She was like Charlie, but a girl. She imagined wandering through the edible garden, picking a marshmallow flower petal or a sherbet pebble or a toffee apple from a chocolate tree. The day dream usually ended up at the same place, the room of the everlasting gob-stopper, but instead of handing it back to Willy Wonka at the end of the book, she would get to keep it for herself. She imagined turning up in school the next day with the multicoloured sweet, knowing that no matter how hard she sucked or for how long, it would never never get any smaller. She would never have to look longingly at the other girls spending their pocket money in the corner shop on a Friday evening, knowing that she had none. She would not have to make up reasons why she forgot it or was saving it for a bicycle or gave it to the Trocaire box. No, she would be able to hold her ground with the millions of different flavours bursting around her mouth like a rainbow of tastes. The car slowed to a halt. Her sweet was all but a thin shell of sugar on her tongue.(less)
Breath in, and out. You feel it moving through your lungs, governed by itself; it created the lungs, and it moves them. It pushes past your face: the dance between low pressure and high pressure. It created the rules and words that trained you like a dog.
(more) It is not a miracle, and it does not care for you. You are part of it, so is the parrot, the murderer, and the table before you. It comes before all knowledge – it reminds us: we all know nothing. We have probabilities and theories, but they will it pass, they always have done. It created the illusion of consistency. It will kill you.
It cannot be named; an idea is cut off from the whole. It created the idea of god and it created the idea of science, it is both. It created both the nothing and the something, it is both. It exists, and it doesn’t exist. You are part of it: you don’t exist. You are part of this whole, as someone completely isolated and alone.
It will bring you love, and it will take it away. The view from Everest unfolded from it. It is a pebble.