"You'd really want to want to", is what he first said it to me. I sat and tried to digest this. It was a strange way of describing anything. My hands involuntarily hugged my coffee mug to extract come comfort from the heat. I had thought that getting here and meeting him was(more) going to be the hardest bit. I had felt I had already done all the difficult stuff..... making the decision to leave my job, to travel and the uncertainty of the next year ahead.
All sorts of questions buzzed around in my head: Would I have enough finances to see me through? Would I be able to find the cafe? Would I be able to pick up the language? And now here the yogi was with a serene expression on his face telling me that "I'd want to want to!". It seemed a bit un-yogi to me, if I am to be honest with you. His brow was unfurrowed and he sipped a clear liquid in his mug, some sort of herbal tea no doubt. It was as if he could read my mind when he nodded towards my mug.
"There will be no more of this either".
I was tired. The flight had been long and uncomfortable and in spite of the Indian heat, the coffee was a welcome boost and taste of home. Now that I was here I had somehow omitted to ask myself if I really did want to want to. The liberation of quitting and leaving and a new start and moving on and all the other cliches had filled my head so much that now I was faced with my teacher and guide for the next year of my life, I did not feel so confident in my decision.
I really want to be on time. They really want to tell the world who they are.
The subway is a blisteringly dry cellar, you can only choke. The subway flies are what have gotten me today. The creature-like golum flies who were born flying slowly the way(more) normal flies do when they are about to die.
They fly around like the air is thick and slippery it's an almost comforting rhythm. Smooth and soft like fine mud or good sex.
I really want to stop that.
These subway flies are little thieves but I'm not sure how. Why do I see them that way? They steal nothing, they are not really begging. They just really want to see you when your thighs stick to the plastic seats. They really want to watch as you unknowingly rub your different parts of skin all over the sticky virus-covered poles.
Some child's itchy loose snot splats onto the window of a subway car, and a fly glides on over to it. He lands and licks the mucus into his belly, tucks his head and rolls. like a pig in mud. and then he bursts(less)
cut into my heart--not rip it open but plant a small strategic slice--and let all the color drain out. crimson and rust and orange and gold and electric blue, the same things we paint our clubhouse with
scoop up some of the psychedelic puddle and dribble it between(more) my fingers. maybe it'll be as sweet-smelling and as sticky as microwaved dreams topped with cookie butter and a ruby red cherry
wipe some of it on your arm and on your bright face. you'll wonder what the radioactive molasses are all about (though maybe the cherry will catch your eye first because you're easily amused like that)
get my feelings across. but i'm not good with words so i'll gather a few handfuls of rainbow syrup and cardiac tissue and hope for the best(less)
Sid woke up. He scratches his eyes. Half asleep, he takes a look at the bed, and doesn't see Nancy. He sluggishly walks over to the kitchen, and opens the fridge. He grabs a carton of orange juice, and drinks straight from the carton. He scratches right above his belly(more) button and his eyes still aren't able to open all the way. Last night was rough. Too many drugs. Way too much alcohol. He walks into the bathroom, and flicks on the light. He froze. Nancy's body lay there lifeless, in a pool of blood. Her face beaten. Her clothes ripped off. Did he do this?(less)