42 - I'm a Flower in a Dustbin

Yet more unedited scribbles. It's becoming a habit. Title stolen from Charlie Brooker's Screenwipe. 

There's something about ranting in a non-direct way that makes life more fun, as long as you can later collect your thoughts in tranquility. If life were only also that easy. If you could spin out into an accident and recover from it with the act of breathing. Fly through the windscreen and land rolled up in the corner of a couch. Plant into an oncoming vehicle with shattering plastic and glass and just skip away and walk off.

Storm into the rou-zong stand and turn over the tables, stab at the air with a spoon while making your speech, drink down your still steaming soup and not be burned, then laugh it all off with the owner, who'd not be fazed in the slightest. Fall asleep during a conversation, on top of the juice stand's big fridge, lapse into sleep there mid-sentence and not be noticed. Ride into a darkness so thick it sprays up around you as you go. Lie out standing up. Rip the sky to shreds and feel their texture in your fingers.

There's something about a dreamlife that seems preferable, but it makes me headache just to think about it. Set me into this world as softly as can be. Strap me into my chair and give my crash helmet a tap as you bid me farewell. Don't let me leave the house without my shin-pads and my knee-pads and vest. Wave me goodbye.