Something is wrong with my mechanism.
Lay down and tell me more.
Why the hell do I find myself, at times, claiming specific, thought out scenarios and detailed accounts of alleged future sequences such as
When I'll get married I'll own a mauve couch,
My wedding party will consist of a DIY picnic,
My daughter will definitely be named Sofia
And my eventual son will bear one of the following: Gruia, Horia or Iacob?
Why the hell do I find myself speaking in awful terms such as
Husband,
In-laws,
Certificate,
Pregnancy,
No-more-time-for-doodles,
Retirement,
Will,
Asylum,
Cremation?
Why the hell do inadequacies come out 'my mouth when I let my guard down?
While remembering clearly how liberating a feeling is
to come to this temporary "at home", to be greeted only by my own aging, a shortness of breath subsequent to climbing four floors.
To throw the groceries on the bed and the pantyhose in the oven, to let chaos be its own rule.
To be able to walk from room to room in nothing but a pair of woollen socks if the season permits so.
To eat my soup like a dog, to wash my face like a cat, to postpone disposing of unsolicited mail until it piles up into something heavy enough to qualify as weaponry.
To invent three exotic dinner recipes in one evening and then test echoes in the fridge for a week if I feel like it.
To doze off with the guitar on my lap, my forehead set confortable, vibrating into a semi-conscious lullaby.
To get high on an accidental combo consisting of: cheap german wine, overdosed herbal tea (all herbs available at any phytopharmacy), acrylic paint fumes and the image of a blank canvas that keeps staring at me, begging for a brush-massage.
To watch a vampire movie
Then a war movie
Then a documentary about penguins
Then a Pixar feature, recently awarded,
Then an R-rated obscure indie canadian sexy abstract ...something
Then a comedy about women who struggle to find their ONE
Then realizing fuck it's fucking time to go to fucking work and I didn't fucking sleep. Again.
To dress in a haste, to wear the most inappropriate clothes at the office, to wear something even worse for a wedding and everywhere I go, regardless of my outfit, to be asked redundantly, in gazillions of enunciations
"why do your fingers still bear no sign of improvement?"
If I were you, I'd answer with yet another question:
"How the hell would I find the time to take care of something else than my freedom?"
