A picture paints a thousand words, but I can neither draw nor paint. These are snippets of writing that have no particular story, plot or other home of any sort.
The wind blows a piece of waste paper erratically along the street, alternating between chivvying it along with haste and then pulling back as though to remind it of some seemingly important thing that is quickly forgotten. The skies are grey. Not a dramatic grey, but rather a grey unremarkable except for the vaguest gesture towards poorer weather to come. I pull my collar up, closing it against the wind, which, the piece of paper now lying in the wet grasp of a gutter puddle, has turned its attention to the matter of slipping down my back and inducing shivers and goose bumps.
One hand assisting my collar in its protective endeavours, my head is bowed against the wind’s onslaught, usefully also giving a better view of the black type that moves jerkily before me as I walk. My book complains quietly about being bent back on itself, front cover almost flat against back. The text, small enough to indicate a non-trivial text (or at least to indulge me in that perception) is hard to read as I walk, and I slow considerably in my battle to turn a page. Why, I am not certain. The words are slipping between my mind’s fingers as my vision slides left to right, left to right with the regularity of a secretarial typewriter, few of them finding any purchase. The narrative before me competes with the train of thought making its way steadily and with greater impact through my mind.
I feel as though I ought to know where I am headed, and I’m sure that those around me mistakenly presume that I do.