Choiceless

The red tape has been sticking up my backside ever since the day I was born… Funny that I thought it won’t be there when I wanted to write a simple blog. Cutting through that swathe is tiring and putting-off.

Now that I have a name, a blog title and have been assured of a global audience (clap, clap) I don’t wish to write any more. But I found out quickly that here too, the elusive Choice has deserted me for the dictionary, residing as it does between Choctaw and Choir. Oh come on! Can’t you be mine? Even for a fleeting moment? ‘Nope’, answers back Choice. ‘Because if I did, you wouldn’t know what to do with me.’

Choice is heartless, as you can no doubt see. So let’s move on…

Let’s talk about raindrops and mittens, and warm woolen kittens. Or is it mittens? I am not too sure. My old fuddy brain keeps on pulling a fast one, every now and then. Layers and layers of repression are hard to clear. They clog the cerebellum and cerebrum like stalactites and stalagmites. I wanted to break free a thousand times, but nowhere seems safe enough. Not even the useful anonymity of a casual blog. There are too many fingerprints to trace me… Hunt me down. Pin me up. Nail me finally to the coffin whose warm bed awaits me. I toss and turn in my earthy bed, light footsteps of a fragile little girl over my grave. She is lost in rain and decides to take shelter near me. Oh God! I am ready to die a thousand deaths just to see her face. But it is not possible, you see. A lifetime that has been spent looking at the legs has condemned the eyes to the cracked sole. A cracked soul too. I become a worm and squirm under her feet. She could have trampled me or stepped aside in disgust. But she takes me in her hands. I worm my way up her face where you can’t tell whether it’s raindrops or tears since she had split. I smell of the sea, oysters and fresh face.