I ponder where my life is going sometimes. Today is some of those times. And I am pondering very hard. Squandered opportunities litter the ground beneath my fantasy Louboutins. Each excrutiatingly painful sliver of thought oozes from my brain and dies like a zygote (again) never to feel the warmth of a womb, evaporating into nothingness on the faintest contact with oxygen. It hurts my head (the thoughts, not the surplus molecules bobbing about my skull). My actual real headache is apparently not assisting with matters at the forefront of my mind.
Whilst I have accomplished a fair few things over the last fifteen years, they all relate to some kind of internal personal achievement rather than having reached somewhere professionally and financially. I drown in a bed of stale thought every evening, rather than the fresh smell of pink notes.
All my achievements are highly irrelevant to the conformity of Eastern or Western social, political and moral ideals of the heart. I’m still wishing the same wish every day. The one thing I give out is unceremoniously never reciprocated to me in an identical manner, I only receive a fragment of “it” back.
Is the heart of man so blind and deaf and oblivious?
Blind, no, since eyes help the gentle man find a younger model.
Deaf, no, since ears are also mandatory efforts of human anatomy whilst his homies drip-feed him words of wisdom and miraculously, my words seer away like stray nuclear missiles.
Oblivious, no, since clearly the gentle man always, I repeat always, and I repeat ALWAYS again just for good measure, knows precisely what he is doing and is determined to be a total pillock at any and every god- or life- given opportunity it would seem with the sole purpose of Annoying Me.
All the selfless little red hearts I offer to him on endless plates of happiness and love and feisty remarks (I’m not a wallflower by any means though I am pretty <tongue in cheek>), register and compute inside of his brain. He just chooses to concentrate on himself, and chomps the last Rolo whilst trying to brainwash me about how Yorkie is not for Girls.
Why can’t I meet a man that will impulsively deliver Milk Tray to me, afoot, by the light of the lunar moon and wake me up to observe the eclipse of the Winter Solstice?
Why does he hide from me, am I so hideous an inkblot he abhors the very handwriter of destiny that inevitably turns the pages towards me, and at the last minute, he jumps into his Bentley coupe, swerves on the roundabout and fatefully listens to the voice that says, “Please turn around, where possible!”