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  • Writer's pictureWellington Lambert

My well-fed fat face

The world is slippery.

Lubricated by the liquid of time that carries our past in the wake of our movement. Just when you think you have a grip on the now, it becomes the after, and we are left living in a world of what if.

My mind devours me with off-shoot projections of past events. Dishing out the worst-case scenarios of any tiny event that passes through my timeline. It is so common to me now, just background noise.

I have tried to trick my brain into stopping the process by catching the thought before it ends, but it is too quick, too tricky. Sneaky fuckers…those thoughts. When I reach out to grab onto a slower piece of the world around me it just slips through my hands, refusing to surrender. Maybe the world functions with its own agenda, maybe I am not able to calibrate myself to its tics and tocks. Its hands must stay at ten to two, straight ahead, never off road.

If there is a purpose to this oily agenda, it is lost on me. I want to skate on its icy surface, but I slip and fall, hard. Each bruise and bump a reminder of my ill fitted fate in this world. I am as honored as I am horrified to be a part of it.

This world is slippery.

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