I sink into this chair that used to be my throne, and stare at the result. 68. Failure. My pride and talent fall to the floor like melting ice cream and I am hit with the reality that maybe I'm not as smart as I thought I was. So used to just understanding all concepts thrown in my direction. Finally, one has prevailed over me. Perhaps I am not alone, however. No high-fives ring out. No lighted eyes, just solemn staring faces and audible swallowing.
The day progresses. I write. I eat. I talk. I compute. I observe. I listen. I am.
Dressed in brightly colored garments as if to cast away my own dark demons of black and gray. I hand my day over. Damaged goods. Useless to me now. No turning around or fixing this mess, it is over. The wheels keep turning and I simply follow the schedule of regularity and of qualities too mundane.
-A
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