pinch punch

And all at once I am anxious. 

Bordering on terrified. But only bordering. 

Got to keep moving. Foot in front of the other. 

Smile at people. You are only one amongst many. 

Do not allow their minutiae to repulse. 

Don't study their faces too closely, 

their hair, pores, glistening folds of skin. 

Their smell. Don't dwell on their smell. 

Be it a nice one or one of a days work, 

a days thoughts, steps and battle.

Impatience seeps through. Just get there. 

Are all these stages necessary? Patterns aggravate. 

Self conscious movements. No one is actually looking at you. 

Hair tied back tightly. Red lips. Checked shirt buttoned to the top. Coat swinging. 

The track on my headphones is one of grit and filth 

and 'yeah that's right - remember me?'
And I feel the familiar seed rapidly sprouting in the pit of my stomach. With ivy strength it spreads through. 

Adrenaline. Butterflies on acid. 

I read of photographers and their ingenuity, actresses and their journeys, designers and their muses. 

My stomach soars. I feel the tears behind my eyes. 

I want. I can. 

I want to take my belt off and stand up and laugh aloud. 

I am full of power and courage and talent and I can. 

I can. I can. 

I will wear a scarf in my hair tomorrow. 

Why didn't I wear a bow tie today? 

Must look into short stories. 

Write a short film. A silent one.

Write that other thing about that woman.

And start that script about the family.

And what about that idea you had about the umbrellas?

And you should really learn to sketch.

And I know already 

- still in the midst of the throes - 

this too shall pass. 

I have been here before. 

The butterflies will wilt with exhaustion. 

Their wings battered by the constant movement. 

And I will lay in a dark room tonight attempting to locate the ivy seeds that are now buried deep. 

Somewhere in the filth and soil that resumes and consumes. 

hawkandfallow

me xxx