242

Note to the reader: if you are brave enough to visit my town, vertigoville, pop.1, stroll down to the bottom of this blog, it reads better in a chronological manner.

Caution: side effects may include nausea, dizziness, and lost of innocence.

242 days of insanity and the counting is not over yet.

 The adjectives are clinging to their numbers, and waiting for their turn to do qualify a cluster of monotonous and soulless days.

242 days.

 The shock is yesterday’s news, the menopausal hours have given up all hope, and the hot flushes are the new reality.

It has been 8 months and 11 days that I have been living outside the norms, no rush hours, no late subways and my week ends have long lost their fight for sanity.

242 coward days.

 Days hiding behind a thick layer of make up, not even trying to fool anybody, the pimps have long moved on, the Johns lost their desires  and the red district is  an island of family-friendly  overpriced condos.

Reminiscence is what’s left, chewing on an old water- soaked bread, my daily bread.

8 months and 11 days, the gestation is over and the new born is a grey haired frail character. Time has fast forwarded the aging process, the days have surrendered to the years, and the new master took over.

 Hail the new master.

Short-breathed years, and the race is a quest for sanity.

Acceptance and resignation are not synonymous; the line is fine but still. Acceptance is waking up every morning and pretending that the hand you were dealt is not your fault, nor is the dealer’s, and resignation is cursing the cards and leaving the game.

Acceptance is a long and lonely path to what could be, acceptance is prying to a god that may or may not care. Resignation is taking charge and deserting all the temples.