A marble drops on the slate of mind and clatters to silence. It is the lone rattle in the void of ages. I freeze to attention and hold my breath to stop it rolling off the precipice.
But it is late in the evening and I have to hurry home. Carefully, with the pearl hanging tenuously to the cliff of the memory. Feet rush with a purpose, possessed. I am aware of its value, I am aware I may lose it to the gaping abyss where a zillion have vanished before.
The local trains of the metropolis are the grist mill to human vermicelli. Nudged, kicked, stunned, compressed and stretched into impossible poses, the idea takes leave with the urgency of steam from a pressure cooker. You know your myopia is in golden form when looking up your fellow traveller’s nostrils you can count the hair in situ. Doused, delirious and drowsy, it is the evening procession. A metallic chime announces the incoming stations.
A giant emerges from hibernation close by to redistribute his mass. I think of the expensive shoes whose installments are yet to be paid. Maybe I should carry them in my bag. A poodle lets out a bizarre whine from the flank of my trousers. Pilgrims glare at me in bemusement. It’s the ringtone of my beloved bugbear at workplace. I work my palm through the forest of bellies and insert it into what is hopefully my own pocket and recover the phone. By now the dregs are a gas settled in my bowels.
It’s been dark since long, both within and without. I ingest the tenth cup of mocha in vicious slurps. My eyes are swollen. They refuse to stay at glowing rectangles of all kinds. The thoughts move in butterfly strokes but the muse is broke. Inspiration stays grounded like an airline gone bust.
I power off the tablet and slip into the bed. Sleep is a bird with broken wings. I flip-flop and creep and weep. I pick up a volume of Stephen King. It doesn’t shine, doesn’t start a fire, it is a dead zone.
A mosquito wails and bothers. A memory wanes and smothers. Night fizzles into light. It is the slippery slope of ideas.