Shades of grey

Shades of grey punctuated with white flakes
Ha. If I were unscrupulous, I would have added a '50' to the title and driven traffic to this post by virtue of that book and film what has (supposedly, since I've not actually read it being certain it's of the Dan Brown School of writing) salacious acts and activities in it/them. Be that as it may.
Today, I woke up and looked through the Venetian blinds and was underwhelmed by the swirling grey clouds and incipient mist of rain without. I made one coffee, I had breakfast then in a fit of annoyance, cancelled my 9 am meeting and went back to sleep for two more hours. It was not very satisfactory, but better than had I gone to my meeting.



Wither my tootsies?
I don't feel any particular enthusiasm for life at this point in time. The shades of grey that surround me physically and metaphorically are getting me down, down, down and I want some clarity, some knive-sharp, skin-cutting, blood-letting clarity that illuminates the choices I have, and what's more, points out which path I should take. Then I'll take the path, and it'd better be a smooth path where things are simple, not complex nor imbued with the bullshit kind of so-called random coincidences that have plagued me throughout life. Bah. Enough. I'm tired of moving goal posts, and even more tired that I'm expected to play footer and kick objects through goal posts. I just want to sleep, or failing that, be put into an induced coma so I don't have to deal. Is it so much to ask for something to go smoothly, well, and bring me serenity, peace of mind, and generally, overall en encompassing happiness? With no strings attached? Not a single one? Yeah, I thought so.



And the walls come tumbling, or mouldering, down.
In the opening scene of The Matrix, Trinity is pursued, she runs, leaps across roof-tops, tumbles down a flight of stairs and ends up on her back pointing her weapons at the top of the stairs. She waits for several seconds, nothing shows up, and she says to herself, "Get up Trinity, Move!". That's kind of where I am at the moment - at a cross roads where I sit back and let the fates crush me, which come to think of it would be one solution, or where I make the effort to run a little further and avoid the fates for a bit longer while knowing that it's only a matter of time before the fates come a-crushing. There's a song in there somewhere, but I think Wagner may have covered it in The Ring Cycle. Why, how erudite of me - I speak of Wagner and the Wachowski Siblings in the same paragraph. The fates, the fates, I can feel them breathing down my neck, and smell the veritable miasma of their inexorable scent that lingers around your throat and chokes you with the bitter, arid acid notes. All in shades of grey of course so that it's in keeping with the stunted, coarse and scabbed exterior that envelops me -there should be a better word which captures the concept better like 'emballage' or which encapsulates that which I said to Dr. J, "Bloody bastard 99B Line - makes me want to vomit". Yeah, that's about the right image.


There is a reason for all this....isn't there?
So there you have it. Ambiguity runs rife in my existence and it's propelling me into a fog of indecision and uncertainty of what I should do, and if I'm not careful, I'll feel the downward spiral that will pull me into an emotional cesspit of negative, cynical and selfishly cruel thought.

Let me be clear here. I'm angry  with thestate of indecision, ambiguity and shades of grey that run rampant, but not with their existence. Things are ambiguous for a reason, not everything can be black and white. What I'm angry about is that for whatever reason, all this vagueness has been wished upon me by whatever cosmic force you want to call up. I'm tired of sitting waiting for an answer from agencies and people I have no control over. Nor can I walk away from these people - like it or not, they are part of the life I lead and this is the way the system works. I'm just tired of, and angry with the way things are done, the way things are, and even more, that this has been imposed on me.


It's time to put this memory to rest
Fortunately for me, and those around me, I have a protective mantra that I can whisper to myself:
Anticipated Phone Piggery, Grilled Chicken Dinners, First Authorship, White Ramekins, Found Wallets, Advil and/or Ibuprofen, 16 Million Shades (but not of grey), Being a Drug Pusher...Anticipated Phone Piggery, Grilled Chicken Dinners, First Authorship, White Ramekins, Found Wallets, Advil and/or Ibuprofen, 16 Million Shades (but not of grey), Being a Drug Pusher...Anticipated Phone Piggery, Grilled Chicken Dinners, First Authorship, White Ramekins, Found Wallets, Advil and/or Ibuprofen, 16 Million Shades (but not of grey), Being a Drug Pusher...Anticipated Phone Piggery, Grilled Chicken Dinners, First Authorship, White Ramekins, Found Wallets, Advil and/or Ibuprofen, 16 Million Shades (but not of grey), Being a Drug Pusher...Anticipated Phone Piggery, Grilled Chicken Dinners, First Authorship, White Ramekins, Found Wallets, Advil and/or Ibuprofen, 16 Million Shades (but not of grey), Being a Drug Pusher...


So there you go, I shall walk home since some buhloody bastard asshole has stolen my bike lights (again) and it's dark - at least not grey - and I'm too cheap to buy cheap lights, but too poor to buy expensive lights - go parse that one - muttering this little mantra to myself and eventually, the light will dawn and like Dickens' Oliver (not that one), will wake up with the little black dog on my chest gone. But not before I wish scurvy and leprosy upon the bloody bastard asshole bike light thief - resistant strains of scurvy and leprosy at that.

Yah. Take that!