Stubborn

by Brendan Strong

It is cold, but not cold enough. There is wind, but not enough. I shall stay out until it is time. Or at least, out enough.

I am out. I have spoken, but spoken wrong. Not incorrect – not by a mile, I’ll say. But wrong, because even if it’s true, why say it and do that? You know, when you know how it’ll go. Like that.

Clouds gather. It’s OK. I like the rain in the misery. The light seeps from windows. The fall of TV light tells me: Go home to your own TV!

The music is ringing through me. One good side. When you’re all keyed up, and each note, each word rings through you – but still connected, still part of the whole melody, still part of the whole experience.

It is cold.

Well, I was right, anyway.

But it is cold.

And then that song again. Keep going, because that’s part of it. To keep going.

Even if it is cold; it is not cold enough.

What does that even mean anyway? What was said. What I said. What was said to me. What does that even mean? Anyway, what was said – what I said, what was said to me: what does that even mean?

Have to do that thing for work, too. Why people can’t just take an email, I don’t know. It’s all back to phonecalls and meetings.I can’t think quick enough for that crap, which is why I like email. I say that to them upstairs, but they can be cold. So, midweek and another few days to fix it. But how?

Someone, somewhere, something. Some thing. Some thing must be done. But what thing? And where? I’d play the argument out in my head, but they never go that way. Some people just don’t follow logic. My logic. What does that even mean?

And anyway, I can’t think quick enough for that crap. That’s why I’m here, trying to figure out what it even means anyway. And it’s cold.

 

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