I hate it when conversations meander around and around and around themselves, washing over already sodden ground and weaving around in circles. Twisting and turning and swirling and leaving behind pockets of bewildered isolation…never ever getting to the crux.
There’s not much worse than that is there? The desperation to hear the pertinent point, the hunger for the punch line or the simple need for a full stop so you can make an excuse and leave and not look back.
The twists and turns imbed themselves deeper and deeper and every.
Drops heavily like a brick onto parched ground, the dust never to settle.
The perfect response that burns the tip of your tongue so keen is it to spring forth from your mouth because it knows and you know and the word needs to know that it’s the perfect thing to say slowly fades. It’s frustrated burning becomes eager tingling becomes an empty nothing.
So many paths have been ploughed over and over and everything has become so compact in the wake that there is almost nothing left.
Every movement feels like the suspended animation of walking into a room with a determined stride only to look around and reach out and…and…why are you here again?
Just get to the point.
Just engage and hold on to the thought until knuckles are white and teeth are stumps and fingers bleed and don’t let it go.
There really is nothing worse than when the meandering stream gathers speed and white water and becomes dark and deep and deafening and dangerous and all at once stronger and bigger than you can make yourself be.
It’s day 23 and this is really, really hard going.