an old song, by the mamas and the papas, that sustains me, for it is that song which reminds me of crampy hongkong, of sweatshops in torrid mansions and shady characters and sweat that forms a thin flim that plasters skin against a flimsy white singlet.
perhaps i should thank him, who picked up the call, for i had only deigned to ask for her presence, as though that alone would give me the courage needed to snap out of my limbo. to no longer leave my limbo peacefully, but simply to snap out of my limbo, the push arrived too late.
so of power dresses and killer heels and exquitisely priced bags, as though they could provide any comfort for the sorry old soul. for want of quirk, to pin a brooch on, to tidy off high waisted skirts with an elastic belt and so they go in the fashion magazines. once so eagerly anticipated, now the colours and whirls of products make my head spin.
for want of simplicity.
a tissue box between us as we talked, discreetly pulling out soft white tissue out of the cardboard hole and hearing the grate as softness catches and tugs upon hardness. the back of my eyeballs hurt and i don't recall the last time they did, so badly.
and so he went, in the still of the night, she spoke. of composure and yet the tears fall.
such an ironical moment, two women, united in grief and offering the oft said but not followed mantra - that life is too short.
i am who i am. you will not defeat me, neither shall you ever have a chance to break my spirit.
