There are days when I become a refrigerator – coolant racing in my veins, keeping thoughts of yesterday and today from rotting. Then there are other days when I am a tomato: red, juicy, happy tomato with a twang.
Between the ice-box and the vegetable there are more days; days spent in a daze or days crammed with plans of imagined heists.

I ride on my dreams - through deep, dark woods of uncertainty or through the Alladinesque maze of domes and turrets. I also dupe fellow time-riders into believing that I live a 9-5 job and breathe human breath. My expanding girth, filling out at the seams, is proof enough of my sincere intentions of pursuing all things material, now and always.
But when the clock strikes dark or even day sometimes, I orbit my secret universe hidden in the folds unscathed by old man Freud’s cudgels.

Though in my human days, when I walk, make small talk, gorge on lard and meat, and snore aloud like boiling, bubbling water, I also manage to think human. I lust after cars and people and live parasitically on TV dreams. Just for my human days, I even know how to use chopsticks; a weapon of refinement, entry fee for the Dandy club.

I wonder why I’m taken aback by the fact that these lines, written many months ago, continue to articulate my general state of mind today or anyday. Is it a timewarp? Am I stunted?

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Does floating listlessly qualify as a purpose per say? Can the phrase be used interchangeably with life? Am I living, err… alive?

To those who have every reason to believe that they belong to the innermost concentric circle of my matrix, I appear normal. A girl who knows where she’s going; one with a set of acceptable ambitions though off late the edge seems blunted by sloth/comfort. One who always makes informed choices, weighing each ounce before imbibing. And every time a boundary is pushed, there’s someone else to blame for her ‘going astray’.

But if truth be told, I’d like to be as abnormal as I can. Not a closet-hippie wanting to live it up with gay abandon. A backpacking traveler perhaps… stung by wanderlust, scarred for life. But is it not what most people aspire to be – free spirits in another world in another time riding into golden sunsets?

Expecting to sever the many umbilical cords, without missing the cocooned comfort of familiarity is clearly naïve. But is asking to live a life on my own terms a sin? Must I feel guilty for not factoring in everything and everyone before I move an inch? Can I not demand my pound of flesh at 24?

An indecisive wreck, am I to pendulum endlessly while life passes me by?