a special caller

A friend emailed me about contentment and taking risks. He said something about my life being so pregnant with exciting things. So much seems to be happening to me. I was mildly jolted. Can I really be projecting such a buoyant façade?

I told him that my life is far from what he has imagined. The crust belies the muck inside, nice and warm, sweetly twirling with bits of undigested steak.

Ennui always tugs at the fringes of my psyche, threatening to invade it if I won’t graciously let it in. Most of the time I do, albeit with reluctance. I offer it tea and cake and a platter of muck. Taste my soul, I would always say. And it would flash a wan smile as it slurps in my muck.

Conversations are always wry and bland.

"Would you like to talk to my liver instead?"

"No, thank you, I’d rather stay here and keep myself comfy."

"Suit yourself then."

That’s the part when we would both stare at the ceiling and scratch our balls until they bleed. And then it would scurry out without warning (Ennui, not my balls), leaving purple footprints on my floor. With repugnance and longing, I look out of the window and wait for its next visit.

Yes, so many exciting things happen in my life.