Pitter Patter

A day in the life.


2. II

I’rd sat there reading those words for a while now. It was like a raindrop running down the window; it takes two seconds but all the time before to make that raindrop. It’d probably taken her years to think of the words, and two seconds to write them down. We hadn’t even been together years. Maybe this was her big finale, maybe this was what she needed to start life, thinking of those words for goddamn knows how long and I was just that person who needed to be swept aside to make the floor clean. I brushed my boot along the floor; the charcoal ashen worn mark on the pavement still bore. I’d had enough of sitting down. I’d decided I’d go to the big pond up west. Holden Caulfield once asked where the ducks go in New York when the lake freezes over. Well, this wasn’t New York and the lake wasn’t frozen over, but I’d wanted to see where these ducks had gone as well. I got to the pond and it was frozen. Lately I had become more cynical of not only other people but of myself. Someone once said “It happened slowly and then all at once”. This was how I had envisaged my cynicism; quietly growing in the back ground and then there it was. I felt like using the cliché of a cancer, but I didn’t feel that it had that negative impact on me. But then again, people learn they’re suffering from cancer and go on to have the best days of their lives. Does it really take us to die to want to live? At this moment, I had decided that I couldn’t make a decision on anything, and that fact summed up my indecisiveness. I hadn’t even come to the conclusion that I couldn’t make an end. Everything, and I will use a cliché here, did seem in fact a mess. I had heard, and still do, people complain that their life is a mess and nothing ever seems to work out right. I would barter back with the Third World countries, with countries suffering from global and personal wars, with economic battles that had spanned hundreds of years, and the mother who could only feed her children whatever their father had spent most of the day trying to hunt in the forest. That was a real problem. That was a real issue. But then I stopped. And I thought. I felt like I was feeding their stereotypical bin with trash of my own. A fight in someone’s mind is often the one that pushes them over the edge. A fight with yourself; because after all, if you don’t have your identity then what are you? If you can’t even convince yourself of whom you actually are, then everything really is a mess and nothing ever really will work out.
At this moment the comical quack of a duck broke my thought. I knew if I stood there and soaked up this mind-set that it would destroy me. I wished I was a duck. I would just quack along and move when the lake froze over. Heck, I even lived in New York. Sure I couldn’t wander down Wall Street and check my investment or grab a bagel, but dammit I was a duck and no one could take that away from me.
It was quite a sad realisation that at this moment I’d have preferred to have been a duck. Life is good.
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