The heat presses down on our narrator like an angry wrestling partner pinning him, only the mat is in this case the seat of Dad's car rather than a wrestling match, and the writer's Dad arrives in the car before thr writer can finish his metaphor. Well, the imagery was vivid, unlike the hiss of the car air conditioner, which could easily be trading secrets with.... someone. Writing while moving is difficult, even though the author once found a library book entire dedicated to the relationship between writing and walking. Walking does involve more of an interaction with one's environment than being a passenger in a car.
He'll be on a train soon enough, the writer thinks to himself, the effort of his fat thumbs making autocorrect all too helpful compared to what would be if he was writing with a pen and notepad. Mom said he should bring a notebook to write in tomorrow for the writing event at the bookstore he asked her to attend. The writer doesn't have many friends so he treats his parents as though their company is welcome rather than mandated, since they're better than being alone.
He leaves the car, is at the train stop The writer can hear sparrows chirping questions to one another, maybe asking who is that human standing by our bush? Only birds might not have a concept of a bush. Or maybe the writer is just trying to hard to abstract his life, make poetry out of mundane tasks.
Mundane tasks are his life today, the writer thinks, today now being the tomorrow of yesterday, his notebook not yet packed in his backpack. The writer will maybe write tonight, he hopes, all too aware his Dad will be helping him find the new office his dentist moved to this afternoon, which means our narrator must work in the morning, an atypical time than when he usually travels to work. The bus that arrives at nine, the writer tells himself he will catch, reluctant to leave the house. Despite the chirping of the birds, outside still takes more effort than staying put, and is not nearly as enticing as the joys of typing words onto Penana. Employment is simply what one does to make money, not what one most wants to do with his time. Time, mime, slime, crime, dime, dime would be what the narrator gave the homeless he interacted with if he found himself interacting with any, which would only occur if he was able to force himself to leave his all too comfortable bedroom.
Prose-poetry, he is unsure what that truly means, but he likely has not yet created it. He has yet to create anything he feels secure in referring to as poetry, at least not in actual years, run on sentences were the writer's weakness in school. He has vague memories of scholastic accomplishments decades in the past, as the past is a rearview mirror and the writer is trying to drive the car without crashing his life off of the road. Trying and failing, trying and failing and what is prevailing is just an overwhelming sense of dread, what do you know, of failing. Failing and falling, the universe is calling, only the writer cannot bring himself to answer on the first ring. The universe can leave a voicemail, the writer chooses without meaning to as time continues to move endlessly forward.
The next bus arrives in 37 minutes. The writer has not yet left his parents' house. He has to pack a notebook in his backpack, fill his water bottle, decide if 34% charge on his phone means he ought to bring his charger to work with him or not, decide on if he will post this on Penana, where the competition is run by a likely far more creative character a decade younger than the one whose hands are on the keyboard typing this. Decisions, decisions, the world is filled with decisions, 32 minutes until the bus will be chugging the writer to the train again where he will ride until he arrives at the office.
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