Quiet times

The future can weight. The unknown looming down on us like an ocean liner as we drift in our inflatable inflatable. The past holds us, it grips and claws at our feet while we try to move on, try to shuffle along, along the same broken path we all tread and treadmill. And as we appreciate all this and dwell on these thoughts, it is our present, our awakening, our seizing of the moment that passes us by. Grains of sand that slip through the glass like a Grandmother down stairs, bump bump bump. The future stretches off to the infinite, heading from the past in the opposite direction, lovers forever falling out but not without hope, perhaps at some point reconciling and rejoining to continue this circular rotation, as we, in our cases, travel endlessly around the great baggage claim in the sky. Equilibrium, that's the longing of the American Dream, everything in balance, a peace and quiet as we stand in our stream of gentle despair. The job, the car, the lover, all causes of individual pain just great enough to keep us interested, and yet just bearable enough to bear, at least for a little while longer, until we can no longer be bothered, or we're dead. What ever is easiest. And as we browse through Sainsburys at five past twelve in the morning, buying compilation cd's and pop tarts, we think, 'Everything in it's right place', and we queue and we dream of our voyage one day to the great Hyper-Super-Retro-Market upstairs, where the bread will be fresh and the eggs unbroken.