Friday 13 November 2009

Compass Rose

A Februrary morning in 1989. Two decades measured out in the slow ordinary things: breaths, conversations, meals made and eaten. Nothing has come of it. The universe's investment in me, manifested by my hot, peculiar little space in it, remains unreturned upon. I have done nothing of note. I remain myself: self-conscious, angry, too apathetic even to feed myself anything more complicated than a Pot Noodle. I am the definition of ennui.

My heart is a spinning compass needle. I don't know if it will settle.

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