Today was an odd day.
I awoke from a dream about my parents, it took me a while to recognise my room. Suddenly I'm back in bed, warm, and I'm safe. My life is as it has always been, and that's not so bad, I suppose. Thinking about that gave me the impetus I needed to get up, otherwise I could have laid there, trapped in the day's emptiness, for aeons. It seems like these days I can't help but be tired at all times, I've come to accept it as being the norm. I don't remember feeling tired all day today. Why wasn't I tired? I got even less sleep than usual. Perhaps I've finally hit that point, like where hypothermia sets in and you just stop shivering. Soon my toes may turn black and fall off, at least then I'll have a reason not to stand up.

Wind blows,
I compose what my mind has found.
Light spills through the crack in my curtain,
My room fills with morning, my day all uncertain.
I rise as the feeling of my dream subsides.

After my shower, after washing my hair for the first time in seven weeks, I sat in silence and ate my breakfast cereal. It's mostly tasteless, but it has enough texture to be interesting. My bowels will thank me down the road. Even in a different house my routine remains unchanged, only the spoons are different. This bowl has fed me all my life, following me from town to town; but this new spoon, I don't like it. It's an intruder, and I don't like intruders. I'll use a different spoon next time; a spoon that fits me better, a spoon that I can feel safe with. I wondered what I'll do when I have to get my own spoons, what if I can't find the right ones? I'd have to live out the rest of my days wishing I could have those old spoons back, rather than my hair or my Grandfather's paintings.

I stepped outside, and the sunlight made my forehead throb. The wind blew bitterly from the west, that's the way I like it. Still air is dead air. I don't want to be stuck in someplace dead. Dad suggested that we go to a cafe, and I said "yes" without even thinking. Everything happens without me thinking, I can have an entire conversation without noticing. We step onto the bitumen of our cul-de-sac. As we walk, hearing myself speak, I'm reminded of Jane Tyrrell's voice as she sings me a sweet story; The World Keeps Turning:

Wind blows,
My hat topples to the ground.
I rise as the feeling of my dream subsides,
My eyes blinking-blinking as I step outside.
Wind blows wildly and free,
I suppose all I need are my thoughts and me.

The world is on mute. My steps feel easy and natural, my legs feels strong. All the cycling is doing me good; Dad is getting short of breath and I couldn't feel better. My ingrown toenail is growing out, soon the pain will be a clipping of Keratin on the carpet. We walk past our old house, a removal truck is parked in the driveway and hairy-shouldered removal men are eating sandwiches. I smile a little, but there's nothing to smile at. I feel stupid for smiling, so I let the wind sweep it off my face. It's a weekday and the town is quiet, we can jaywalk 'till all the busy people are moving again, filling the air with the fumes left in their wake. We walk past KFC, the fake smell of chicken emanating from their aerosol bottles is alluring, but thoughts of my kidneys keep me moving.

Wind blows,
My hat topples to the ground.
I suppose that my eyes are round,
They roll as a small smile creeps onto my face,
The sun takes its toll on the people in this place.
Pavement where the grass used to be,
The cement is hard beneath my feet.

Sitting in the cafe, I feel safe because I am facing the entrance. I pick at my Caesar Salad. There's a waitress who works here that makes me weak at the knees; She's always so cheerful, she wears Converse All Stars and walks with a bounce in her step. I think about her often, wishing that I didn't. She has amazing breasts, they bounce as she walks; I'm sure she does it on purpose. Mum and I call her Bouncy-Breast Girl, BBG for short, and I'm disappointed when I see she's not working today. I sit and think about her. Dad doesn't know about BBG, and I decide not to tell him. I'll keep her to myself, she'll be my BBG. After a while I realise what this strange feeling has been all day, the feeling of energy in my arteries and perception of myself; it's happiness. I'm stuck in my own personal Groundhog Day, but today I'm happy, who knows why? Nothing's changed, at least not for the better (where can BBG be?), but today I'm happier than I've been in a long time. I'm smiling for no reason, I'm not feeling the urge to break stuff, what's going on?

Wind blows,
My hat falls to the ground,
I suppose the world keeps turning 'round.
Alone on a hill,
Goosepimpled skin sitting still,
But its my mind that's wandering.
Shadows stretching across the park,
To become one in my eye,
An etching of the setting of the Sun.

I go to my favourite record shop, I like it because of the man who owns it. He's there every day, but he acts like it's the last place he'd like to be. He does everything in his power to get you in and out as quickly as possible, so he can get back to doing... whatever. He'll terminate any chit-chat at the first opportunity, especially if it regards music. Surely he, my man, my grumpy man, will help me feel normal again. I walk through the narrow, dingy shop, snatching an album from the shelf without breaking my gait. I look towards him, and he's smiling at me. I know something's wrong here.

"Hey, that's a good one you've got there, it's $24.95," he says enthusiastically.
I hand him the money, he puts the CD in a bag for me, and I'm about to leave.
"Hey wait, there's more! That CD comes with an iron-on transfer!"
He hands it to me, it's a mirror-image of the CD cover in sheer black and white. I try my best to be morbid about it despite my... ailment.
"This really is quite clever," I say, "they can turn each buyer into a walking advertisement. Instead of paying tens of thousands of dollars for TV spots and the like, they just let people willingly plaster their promotion on themselves. Ingenious."
"I suppose you're right," he says, "but at least it looks good, huh? I mean, I wouldn't mind being an ad for a band like them."
I walk out, feeling utterly confused. What's wrong with him? He's supposed to be my surly, heartless record shop man, but now he's become just like the rest of them. Has he been infected with the same thing that I have?

Wind blows,
My hat topples to the ground,
I compose what my mind has found.
Light spills through the crack in my curtain,
My room fills with morning,my day all uncertain.

Later, as I say hello to Danni at work, she says to me, "Well look who's all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed!". I start to wonder whether people are supposed to feel this way, do people feel like this all the time? All those happy-go-lucky chirpers who are "so glad to meet you", are they like that all the way through? Is this why BBG is so cheerful? "It's wierd, I just feel good today, I don't know why," I say to Danni, and she looks at me like I'm crazy. I feel crazy.

A little later on my back starts hurting, I step into a bucket of filthy mop water, and suddenly the place is swarming with shouting children. I smile a little, knowing that I'll be home again very soon.

Wind blows,
My hat falls to the ground.
I suppose the world keeps turning 'round.

Happiness is a warm winter's morning.

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