Every time I think that I'm in control, that I'm just peering over the edge to see what's beneath, next thing I know I'm plummeting through the air wondering what happened. Will it end with a splat this time round, too, I wonder. I'm like Wile E Coyote, with so much misplaced self-confidence, trying but always failing to catch the Road Runner. Mercilessly resurrected scene after scene, forever spurred on by the pen of the scriptwriter, time after time ending with a bang or splat or squish or BOOM. Surely, at least once, it must have crossed his mind, 'Enough. Just let me be, and let him be.' But he is stuck in the eternal cycle of failure. Am I similarly condemned? Is my life being recorded and subsequently chopped into vignettes for the amusement of the gods?
Whoo, it's been such a long time since I've written like that. Despite my best efforts, colour is slowly forcing its way into my monochromatic existence. The thing is, that colour is mostly grey. Well done.
