Oh how I imagined this week. A fateful sigh left my lips when I first walked in, dreading, intimidated, excited and alone. It was perfect. Almost. A week past and I was anticipating spending these hours trying to sleep off a mammoth amount of beer and screaming over football or maybe even cricket. I had expected it to be a very satisfying end to a very fruitful week. Can we play another hand please? Maybe this time I win it all. Smile contently.
Wishful thinking. A week spent injecting into blood that there are a few unpaid bills which will remain due for a few more months or even years before I can lay my dirty, bloody and soiled hands on the creative satisfaction which is desperately craved. An imagination in vivid colours, brush strokes of excellence, carefully brought out contrasts of images being conceived on a black background along with some anticipation. What was I talking about? Hope? A dream about a roving eye on paid sportsmen and their activities on the field or was it the unpaid politicians and their antics off the field languishing on my other arm while words passed under my fingers or am I looking at it from the wrong end of the bottle?
The city is out of synch. Vibrating on a different frequency, I have desperately strived to achieve the resonance which I felt with this land of heritage when I last bade a teary goodbye. A new being, the traveler, has surfaced. A manic and fanatic emotion to start a run. To look, to wander. But I wonder how a faint hope of that glimmer which I anticipate time and time again will present itself to me, to banish all the clouds (An umbrella?) will steer a very heavy ship to port.
Did I read that somewhere? Is it possible to lose intelligence progressively in a few hours? It feels like a steady process of mental degradation. Oh fiction, why do you desert me so? Unknown reader any bet when it all snaps?
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