Watch Me Go
I love bodies.
Watch them go. Robots. No matter what bizarre fear roams throughout my mind, my body will keep me going. Carry me to my destination. I’ve talked about faith in your future self, but how about trusting your body, huh?
The wee stories you tell yourself. Why did he look at me like that? Do I have something on my face? Do I look stupid? Do I seem vulnerable? I’m not vulnerable; he better not think I am vulnerable! Looks like a workie; he probably thinks he can fight. But that’s an issue, he will have that confidence, plus he will have that workie strength. His muscles are carved with a routine that relies heavily on those Friday pints. Maybe, I’ll get scared because of his confidence. He’ll be too used to intimidating people; no other reality can exist. If he knocks me out, how will I get home? People will see me all confused and sad. I bet I’d fucking cry. Your eyes water if you get hit in the face anyway! I’m not sad! Suppose I’d be ashamed. But why? Not as if I fight people. I’m not meant to be a good fighter. “Why did you lose the fight?” “Ah well, you see, I’m not a fighter, so I guess it was a toss up.”
I reach the subway.
My body does the shopping. Gets the food.
Why isn’t this cunt moving faster? No, not you, body, but this bitch in front of me. On her phone, ignoring her surroundings. Catering to her need to be spoken to. If only I could talk to her, remind her that we are all humans here. Humans, also are on their weekly food shop. Perhaps, this is a frequent shopper. The type that goes to the shops five or six times a week and picks up four things at a time. What a bitch. Buy all your shit and come back after a week. Can see all the notifications on her phone that she has yet to open. That must be nice. How much of that is by design, I wonder. Man, I do not seem aloof. Struggling to stay still- tension is not attractive. My legs tighten as I picture those behind me staring at my skull. Fearful of incoming misdirected anger. Easier to be visibly pissed at a man, I reckon. Well, depends on the size of the man. If my legs gave way, what would happen with the queue? Would it go on, or would there be a moment of silence? “Let us all take a second to mourn this maniac on the floor crying, and then continue with our obligatory massive food shop. It is what the random angry man would have wanted.” If I don’t get my shop now, I’ll get a takeaway because there is fuck all in the fridge. And, if there is fuck all in the fridge today, then there will be fuck all in the fridge tomorrow. If, when tomorrow comes, I find myself in yet another queue, in a different store obviously- I won’t be able to be seen in this store again, and it happens again? I’ll keep getting takeaways. I’ll be a big fat guy.
I take my receipt.
My body takes me home. I guess my body always knows the end of the story. My mind can try and predict the worst, like a bitter fan of a tv show that has gone several seasons too long. But, the episode will end, and it won’t be that shocking. The bridge doesn’t collapse, the plane doesn’t crash, the man doesn’t attack you, and no one thinks about you. The end credits play like they always play, with you reaching your front door. My body is the director, and my mind is the pretentious actor that wants everything to be about him. Well, I tell you what, cunt, it isn’t about you anymore.
Watch me go, pal.
Cheers