Down the rabbit hole

The day grows insidious.

One would believe, that a morning that broke rather gloriously— warm but cloudy, with a hint of rain and the indelicate caw of the friendly crow, would ideally hold promise of a favourable day.

Apparently not.

The bank balance hangs dangerously low, self-esteem is tottering drunkenly on a tight-rope with no safety net of therapy, shopping or liquor.

As Floyd washes over me, I sit pondering the wicked humour of destiny.

What I have borne with fortitude and false bravado is beginning to come undone at the hands of a greater power I refuse to succumb to.

Final vestiges of pride? Perhaps.

The day grows insidious.

My fingers fly randomly over the keyboard, searching fervently for words there, that assembled in the right order would reveal the masterpiece I have so long been seeking.

But not today-apparently.

Fame would just have to wait another day.

The diamonds in my fingers glint, taunting me of worlds I belonged to.

I still dream of the trees outside and dry landscapes and setting suns. To journey across a thousand sights, and a million dashed dreams, just like here, now.

As a phantasmagoria of psychedelic emotions and turbulent thoughts whirl up in a collective frenzy, we seek places, not to hide, but put us in the spotlight.

“Dance monkey, dance,” someone cries.

And with a flourish I-we do.

The day grows insidious.

A little bit of Dutch courage would have helped. I will settle for a strong cup of coffee and the comfort of worn-out bed-springs, and a Hammerstein musical, searching still for the day that was promised.

Whimsical much?

Maybe a quick jump down the rabbit hole.

If someone could just point me, with a gentle hand, in the right direction, to provide respite from a journey that has already proved long and arduous. And maybe even a kind word or helping hand. As I find myself sinking deeper into difficult situations that bear strong resemblances to Dante’s Inferno, I whip around for a good look, not just for friendly faces, but some memento to remember best-forgotten situations by, scars besides.

Transformations- almost Kafkaesque; more mundane, less Spiderman, but without the rapier charm of an arachnid or insect.

Godot be damned, I am waiting for Jeeves and my cup of tea and some sound advice. Till then I will hide in the company of languid wanting.

As Floyd gives way to the dulcet tones of Slim Shady, hope springs eternal, or maybe it just quietly died.

PS: Was having a bad, boring day, with my iPod on shuffle and (hopefully, rather presumptuously) a Wodehousean hangover.