Another day in Paradise

A writer lost for words must be one of the least interesting things on this mess of a planet.  Lying in a room that could be any room anywhere and, in fact, is, I try to distil confusion into a coherent thought.  After all, what’s going on inside is no more crazy than what's outside.  A sense of insanity is nothing other than a reasonable response to the madness of the world; loss of words is directly attributable to loss of narrative.

I was woken by the barking dog.  It was still dark.  I summoned the effort to reach for the clock.  0535.  The dog belongs to the son of the casera.  He’s visiting.  So am I. 

An hour and a half on, the constant sound of bus engines fills the square.  Swallows bounce their sonar around the canyon of the street.  Inside, there is a lull.  The dog is silent; so, too, my phone.  I turned off notifications two days ago. Shock and resistance are giving way to weary acceptance: whatever will be, will be.

I take refuge in music, recalling every word and sound, before checking it back from the beetle-green iPod: studio first, then live.  Like the voices that rise from my Kindle’s glowing screen, these performances are from a different age.  I can’t bring myself to indulge the present.

Somewhere, everything is being torn apart: cities, futures, lives, bodies.  Here, the buses whine, the swallows screech, the dog barks.  A suitcase clatters over cracks in the pavement, and the madness turns again to face the sun.