My chest is tight. Breathe, I reminded myself. Breathe.
A slow creeping burn rises in my neck, heating my ears. Are my earrings too heavy? They must be. My ear lobes are numb.
I’m bent over on the sofa, one hand on the grey stack of papers on the floor, supporting my leaning body. The other clutches a green marker. I knew better to hunt down a red marker. Too angry, and those inspired so much defiance in the past.
I’m more pragmatic now.
Breathe, deeply.
I haven’t circled anything yet. I must have forgotten something immensely important – I’m almost panicking about something. Better check the to do list later. But now, concentrate, no more putting this off. You know it’s right. Oh alright, if you must be distracted, work on summarising you in words. Be enthusiastic, passionate, eloquent. That’s what they all go in for these days, youthful energy, high, jolting, zigzagging springiness to feed on. Their last batch was reduced to drones, only zombie memories now. But to recycle it so soon would be to alert the freshies, so no, better to conceal, to huddle the lackadaisical ones in their cubic homes. They live pretty well; cool air, if a little stale, a network connection, free water and facilities, sometimes even free food; even their walls aren’t all that high. It’s still low enough for them to generate a constant undercurrent of murmuring with each other. Those ingrates, says the men with their names on their own doors in one of those faux old English fonts that look weathered and reliable but have effeminate names like Lucida or Corsiva, shaking their heads wonderingly.
Yes and remember, breathe. Breathe slow.
It’s the wrong place to do this. Wrong position, all the blood must be rushing to my head, I’m practically upside down. I right myself, hauling the still-rustling paper up with me. My head spins slightly, the world spins with me. The day is damp and limp; the heat must be wilting me. A roll of something serpent-like in my belly twists upwards, and spirals. Tightens. Never you mind those zombie-ingrates, you’re not one of them. Not yet – no! Not ever. Never ever, ever, ever. Hush, you mustn’t sound like a fairy tale. It’s youthful energy, not childish rage of the self-righteous. Disney, not Brothers Grim. There’s a difference. The idealistic, the delusional; isn’t it all the same? Do they matter, all the same? A sharp, constant shaving sound finally catches my attention, or is chosen to distract from dangerous thinking, pick your poison, tick off the decision and may it do ya fine. My nervous fingers have rended along the edge of the segregated sheets, laid waste to a line of gutter even. How did I do that without noticing all this while? Fisted fingers, relax fingers. Shreds of dull grey confetti flutter off my fingertips, and I brush off the reluctant few still stuck the pads of my fingers. Damp, irritating hand of humidity.
Breathing, breathing, always remembering.
You’re a minority group, that edges you forward a tad, so you should sell that. Nowadays they need variety in their diet, what do they call it, ethnic diversity? To holler that they don’t discriminate, while they beckon forward with one hand the colourful people, and turn away others with the other hand, saying stop, we’ve fulfilled our quota. We are a rainbow, hire less violet and more red, but all colour are represented. A dash of black or white, just like pepper, just enough to be hip, but still Asiatic yellow enough to still be friends with the local conservatives. The next level of racism, my friends. Race now used in a race against others, the pyramid is inverted, but the rules are the same, centuries old, these rules are.
See the ceiling; see how it always gets lower whenever you glance away. Save the space, built more storeys. Asians are shorties anyway, we don’t need the room to grow. Short and forever young. They call us stunted, in
Okay, I say aloud. The cat is half-startled and glares balefully at me. I glare back, almost envious. He wants no more than idyllic days and a string of mischief to chase. Simple, contented fool.
Okay. Now, deep breath. It clutters all the way down, down where the unwilling stoicism is hauled out to face this task. Rattling his chains, such a laughable show of vigour. No deeper than there though, hidden beneath that old fellow is someone older who used to thrash ol’ man stoic and told him to shit on his ancient Athens. This one cheered on Batman, not that stuporic Superman, thought John was a ninny and Paul was king (as long as you pretend he’s dead already, Paul today is a flying disgrace) and Ringo was all technicalities. Wanted to be a traveller/dancer/writer/coach/fire-fightress/artist and fight crime on weekends. Spun elaborate tales of an adventurous life, charmed with bold doings and a diamond-dusting of delicious danger. This one is the tiny voice. But forget that flighty one. Tiny voice only leads to nowhere and 5-year-plans don’t fly where tiny voice is concerned. Another hauling in of air, even though I’m flying sick of breathing.
Alright, alright, we’d just circle the next ad in the Recruits that says advertising executive and have done with it. Sign away a year at least, eh? Green is for growth and money and the-opposite-of-red. Green is go, is progress, is tolerable. Remember how tiny voice always falls silent when you poke at it to pick just one path. You can’t keep waiting to make sense of it’s gibberish screaming against everything practical you do. Only thing you can make out of that baloney is that it’s not right. There’s that word again, practical. Yes, green is also for practical.
Remember to breathe out too.
