uprising of the social chameleon

The “master plan” concept, all the talk of ‘fate’ and ‘fortune’. It feels like someone taking their fingers to your neck, just a slight touch but enough to unease, to buckle the knees, to introduce the slightest spark of fear to your mind…My mind should not accept such ‘friend requests’, to coin a phrase…

From the pub, a look at the clock (I liked the angle I had chosen to check the time; it would have made a decent photograph). Things to do when you’re [dead] bored in Preston, and all that, so I walked, through the smattering of crowds and what-not. Taxis, stopping, starting, like they seem to do in computer games. Through and beyond.

She met me with a hug, warm enough, possibly even genuine. But a few hurried words of self-promotion from her later, and that was me done for the night. Downhill, actually quite literally. Injection of the very slightest drop of sharp balsamic and the sauce is ruined; similarly, I found the most subtle reminder of difference between me and another, and I am gone wayward for the duration. It will never be broken, these links, these uneven footpaths I walk…

In conclusion, comparing myself with the lives (or writings) of others will always result in a total collapse of confidence. And it hurts so deeply, hurts as fierce as love, that I cannot envisage a time in which I will have been able to swim far enough out from its shore.

Today’s motif is the mouth.

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