Blast from the past ; I reach to wipe a speck from my screen, and smear it all over. Smearing, wiping, clearing, obscuring.
Am I become the pivot upon which the world revolves? Around me all is in flux, yet I remain, immutably bored.
How then, to step from the safe centre into the eddying rush of change? A brave plunge? A high-dive into the alive?
The lilliputian ropes that bind me can be broken easily enough, but I fear that first elastic ping, the tang like a whip-crack on sunburnt skin.
With a snuffle, I muffle the speakers and set the player on shuffle ; who pops up but Ella Fitzgerald : Somethings Gotta Give.
Baby doll, ain’t that the truth.