Harbour fish
A fish swims by. I notice it barely; its body blends with the water, it moves like a ripple on the harbours surface. I think; does it see me too? Does it know I have spotted it? As its body passes a shadow in the shallow water, another is birthed out of the dark spot – and another! There are three fish in the harbour. As I raise my head and my view expands, I begin to see hundreds more; invisible to the original glance, but truly there, hundreds of fish in the shallow harbour where I sit. They are everywhere; like ants in the grass when you look hard enough. (My fascination with the first fish, or perhaps more accurately my spotting of, seems silly now. I see fish brighter and fish bigger. I look back for him anyway. Oh, but I will never know. There are too many fish to tell).
The supermarket
I truly hate the supermarket. Why?
1. Firstly, I hate making lists. And, I in turn do not make lists, and forget the very groceries I walked down here for in the first place. This is made worse by my immediate remembering when I return home. Do you return to buy the forgotten item? No – I go without. It seems, too, if I remember it next time, I must forget other items to make room for it. Perhaps the human brain has a capacity of remembering twenty groceries. The solution would be, to write a list. But I hate writing lists.
2. I truly hate the word aisle, and aisles themselves. I never learn where what lies and in turn trod up and down, down and up the same aisles again and again and again. I imagine a map of my movements within the store and the overlaps of tracing and feel truly upset. How many times do I pass what I need (forgetting, I need it) before I take the course of the store, this time, in search for it?
3. Another reason I hate the supermarket is because every person I pass looks like a past lover. They carry the faces of orgasms I have known for a split second and cause me to pass everyone with a face of disgust. And, they may as well be! It is geographically only a matter of time and metropolis of chance; sooner or later, someone I pass will be a past lover and I might die there and then.
(There is really no point to this; if I don't go to the supermarket I cannot eat. I may as well write about the troubles of breathing).
