Telling the true story of the world in interior monolog
Here I am in Mansfield town centre on Monday and I wish it was Friday. Like everyone always seems to say, post, tweet, pin-up etcetera. Like the song says; it’s Friday, I’m in love. But I am on a mission–On a job—on a plan—meeting with the lawyers Some Young Guy LLP—steeling myself for the onslaught of emotional battle. I am weak, afraid, wounded but I need to be a shark. Sharks don’t get caught up in the current of pedestrian traffic—they make the current. But I don’t because I mingle in with these people who seem to always be going, wandering and flowing in and out of days with no real direction. I need focus but I am caught up in so much haze—like a dirty fish bowl. Moving in general fed-up-ness darting more than a scuttle—hustle more than a bustle– within the crowd of slow moving old-aged-pensioners and goldfish-bowl-mums who vacantly push strollers in long rolling steps. I dart around some men who meander within and without of the crowd. They remind me of seahorses with their heads fixed forward but going nowhere. They just go around and around all docile and drowsy—dopey drones of dopamine days.
Am I as goldfish as the goldfish girls or does my scuttle make me more like a neon tetra. I look at my watch more than these people. I am Big-City-Busy but without the Big-City-Shoes and looking Big-City-Bored as I try to think of somewhere to go whilst I kill time before my appointment with Finality. Instead, I float about.