The Wax Conspiracy

Every time I leave the house I feel like a

die is cast. And sometimes it’s good, like those times [4; 5, 2; 6, and 4; 4] when you were a kid and you found a key, which was always a magical moment. And this is because you believed that keys were imbued with meaning, with implications. If there is a key, you reasoned, then surely there is a lock to go with it. And the sorts of locks that the key opened and the sorts of people who had lost the key were as diverse as your imagination could make them.

Needless to say, sometimes the throw doesn’t go your way [3; 2]: like when you have to go to work; like when a train hisses at you like a mad coprolaliac and other people see you start, and this embarrasses you. Or like when you’re on your way to work and you’re shitty because the train is late, but then you find out that the train is late because of a fatality a few stops before you get on, and you feel guilty, as if your thoughtlessness were somehow to blame. And anyway, you weren’t to know.

Then there are the times when the dice are thrown [5; 1] and you don’t want to face what they are showing you. Like that time you were coming home late at night from the city and you saw a woman – a woman autochthonous to inner-city pubs and seedy establishments: a vitamin-D deficient sort of woman – and as the song faded out on your mp3-player you heard her say, “But no one will believe me...” It was then you saw that she was crying. But you looked away and pretended not to notice because you were scared that she was going to ask you for money, and it’s not that you didn’t have any, it’s just that you didn’t want to give her any. Then you walked away and you didn’t look back, but sometimes you still think about her.

There are also moments when those silvery buggers [6; 5] fall in such a way that they change you for the rest of your life: like the time you walked to the end of the station platform to get away from the other commuters and you caught that couple fucking just over the fence and against the tenement wall. You missed your train and the next one waiting for them to come out just so you could get a look at them, but when they finally came out, you couldn’t. You just looked at your shoes.

Belvedere Jehosophat

Written on Monday, 11 October 2010

The Wax Conspiracy

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