Once I saw a
boab tree and I felt repulsed at how much it looked like an imaginary old-me.
I used to have a habit of
projecting horror-visions of my future-self onto inanimate objects, something I
hardly noticed develop until suddenly everything looked like saggy skin. Unmade beds and deflated
balloons often featured in my dreams.
I was perhaps thirteen, on the cusp of everything, when I found myself filling a grey plastic bag with a thin trickle of water. I poked it; it was cold and soft. When I'm old, I thought, my arse will have the same consistency.
I was perhaps thirteen, on the cusp of everything, when I found myself filling a grey plastic bag with a thin trickle of water. I poked it; it was cold and soft. When I'm old, I thought, my arse will have the same consistency.
Time, time yet to happen,
started haunting me.
Scaffolding looked like
exposed bones; grilled sausages like little sunburnt fingers; coffee beans were
moles. I shuffled around shooting panic stricken glances at wooden doors –
decaying teeth – and their handles – the ball-piece for that inevitable hip
replacement.
Then the paranoia set in. I
started wearing hats like portable verandas, applying fifty-plus sunscreen and
coming home whiter than when I left. I feared the rays of the moon.
This fixation is, thank the
lord, one of the past. Getting to know myself has taught me that my mental
apparatus just digs the idea of short-term obsessions (my dietary data shows
the same patterns - I have just moved out of the chai phase into the mocha
phase). As it turns out, Google maps is not a representation of the varicose
veins you might not get, and that hedge is not what your hair will eventually
turn out like.
So, in short, we can all
just relax.
related posts.
myrtle by charlotte guest
sneakers vs sex tapes by claudia lewin
related posts.
myrtle by charlotte guest
sneakers vs sex tapes by claudia lewin
