Cucumber

It's only 7:58PM and I've already been to the gym, eaten dinner and taken a hot shower. And I'm wearing my PJs.

Sitting in front of the laptop, my usual inspiration in the evenings has left the room. Leaving me with a full stomach, wet and uncombed hair, and a silence that took over that nice sound of fingers hitting the keyboard with anxiety. A noise as rhythmic as a thunderstorm -as I write with only 2 fingers.

Letters and words are piling up; paragraphs coming down and filling the void, taking me where my twisted cluster of brain cells that are still alive choose to; a cluster that is getting smaller by the minute, I becoming dumber by the word. Not as stupid as my co-workers, but not far behind either.

Earlier today at the gym, two women walk pass my side and one of them, while articulating with her hands, said to the other: you know it's like. . . who knows! And the other one, wearing sunglasses indoors replied: I know. Miss the beginning of the conversation though. Think didn't miss much, didn't I?

Time is running out for me my friends, my time around here. There's a limit and if I don't comply with it, the shit is going to hit the fan.

Could I stay cool as a cucumber?