Cliché

Shit is getting real people. Shit is getting real.

The oh so very pointy end of the year is here. Meetings in overdrive, reports being written, ends are being tied, hopefully tightly. Nothing messier than unravelling ends.

As I type flashes of henna from my palm appear. It makes me smile. Music plays from the dock on the top of the fridge. The washing machine hums and spins.

Thoughts fly. Hearts pump. Lungs fill and deflate.

The pointy end is here, and I am not ready. I need time. I want to hold out my henna inked palm and tell the world to just stop. Please. Just for a while. I’m not ready.

I need to run. I need to ride. I need to slow down. Move more. Rest easy. Keep going. Eat less. Eat more. Sleep. Sit in the sun. Brew tea.

Laugh.

I am angry at the universe today. I am rebelling against it by cleaning the toilet in good clothes. I am playing music loud and throwing caution to the wind. Take that universe! Get bleach on me as I scrub the loo. I dare you.

Some days are better than others. It’s the way it goes.

Thoughts fly. Hearts pump. Lungs fill and deflate.

We get up, we get on. It is the way of things. Tomorrow, so the cliché goes, is another day.

Comments
  1. Sharron |
  2. Seana Smith |

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