The Second Day

I forgot my umbrella, it didn't rain, it was broken anyway, I need a new one. I need a new tie, I don't really. It was a good idea to go yesterday all the way to the limit of my strength, and take all that rain. It's that familiar feeling: you had the worst hand, and you made it, just barely, but it wasn't even close to as hard as you could have imagined it, that is if you hadn't had the opportunity to make it real, and expose it for it patheticness. Mom called before the train back. "You're still there!?" Always that tone I revile. Just be quiet. You can speak, but be quiet. At least there's dinner waiting at home. Dinner she didn't make. Dinner that wasn't made for me. • I wow people, I'm a magnet and a mirror. 32 protrusions of bone contain unlimited magic. Who would have thought. I'm kind, I give advice, it gets blown off, new guy advice. Poor poor suits. Little useless misguides critiques and half-ass pinpricks they think are jabs at me are bounced back into the void, never to be seen again. 32 little strangely shaped bones, it boggles the mind. • The grander part of the day I accompanied the little boss, she has the power of a courtier, from enough practice no doubt, but I feel a soul in her words, as mercantile as they are. The latter part of the day I spent trying to catch up to a simpleton as he engaged people, exposing his robotic personality. I swear, me and the customers could almost see the batteries and circuits shining through his joints. Poor robot, he works hard, six laps around the same doors. I wish I could help you, I really do(n't). • No lunch for tomorrow, I'll have to buy it myself. You can't count on anyone but yourself. I know this is a recurring trust, but one secretly bears hope that it shouldn't be like this, even though this is exactly how it should be. My lower legs hurt. I regret to inform you, Legs, but it won't stop, not soon I hope, you'll have to toughen it out, you've had a relaxed series of months, did you think it would last forever? It's okay, you'll get used to it, it's good for you, you'll thank me later. • The mental bourgeoisie that is me yearns to step into the illusion wants more. What will its denizens say of me tomorrow? I couldn't pretend to care, and it feels nice, feels like a waveless sea, like I am one. It's sad in a way, that the path to the peak of boisterousness can only be reached by the death of the ego. You climb it all the way up for the sole realization that it has ceased to matter, and besides checking out the view there is very little to do up here.