All I own is here. I expected it to hit me once I did precisely that to the road ahead. “It” being a vague expectation of a stream of emotions which would most likely win a badge for an honourable display of diversity. Expectations are resentments under construction, a wise man once said.
I don’t resent to feel nothing. Yet that is, I must assume. And nothing is an obvious understatement. It just feels unreal. Like a holiday, a short escape into a different reality. A backdrop change, a fleeting scenery.
Only at times I get a glimpse, like a distant rumble, a wee quake and maybe a puff of smoke escaping the crater, revealing that in fact there is a volcano laying dormant underneath it all, which, sooner or later, will spit only hell knows what sorts of things. I’ll be there to take a bath in fire. Burn which doesn’t serve no more. The ashes painting new beginnings…
How easy to be poetic from the safe distance of the imagination. When finally the un separates from the real, I may well be seen cowered into corner whimpering. But it’ll be short lived. Pinky promise!
