How predictable.

The days are getting longer, the sun brighter, the little blue ball takes another turn.

A new job brings new work and new people. New stories and new lives.

The tiny grooves in my soles don’t pick up tiny pebbles. They squeal in protest on polished granite.

The smoke rising from my cigarette is reflected on the glass towers. Until it gives up.

From my chair, I see the planes take off in the distance. Up, up, up, get the fuck out of here.

An elevator has mirrors to show me my hair. Can’t I do anything about it? Shouldn’t I chop it off? Couldn’t I give a damn?

Does knowing the spelling of scintillating, knowing ‘something other than enjoy’, make you a writer? Does the lack of interest slash ability to make wisecracks disqualify you? Does it matter?

Birthdays and weddings, bills and deadlines, events and meetings, the distractions keep you busy while life gushes by.

Or is this life itself? And you, the child who wants to be an astronaut, the dog chasing the red dot? Perhaps you are still to learn; you see, a fish’s dream should stay in the sea.

The days are getting longer, the sun brighter, but the winter of discontent rages on.

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7 Responses to How predictable.

  1. Anuradha says:

    Have you adopted this one post in two months routine?

    • Big Eyed Fish says:

      This is probably the only thing in my life that doesn’t follow a routine.
      But I plan to change that. One of these days.

  2. Anki says:

    why ‘d u stop again.

  3. The Regular says:

    Come back, the summer is gone now

  4. The Regular says:

    Can’t believe it’s been more than three years

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