the Man with a Fan
And its here, on the rainy streets of Dublin I stand. Or rather, sit, on the 150 bus to Ross Mór. I've never been to Ross Mór but I imagine its big. I saw a woman outside the cinema whose hood blew down in the wind and it seemed to make her terribly angry even though she was the one walking against it, fighting an invisible force. Its impossible to always go with the wind but its also a real bitch to go against it, you've gotta leave the hood behind, its just not working and you're gonna get wet.
I'm not far from the hospital where I woke up after my OD. It makes me want to puke even just being near it. I've eaten a lot of popcorn so that's probably also a factor. I really don't know if I was going with the wind or against it with a hood choking me out. Maybe I'm walking with the wind, holding a fan pointing back at my face with a noose tightened around my neck. That's an ugly thought though and I'm not sure its true.
I think I'm probably just very lonely and I think all the people around me are probably lonely too. We're all sort of paraplegic, floating limbless in a wind not created by any God but by a man with a very big fan. It's wings or flaps are all rusted and the motor is screaming out and we all expect it to break someday but it just keeps spinning.