Prove Me Wrong - UK Series

And from the battlefield of my incurable sickness I scream – fates! And in the bowels self doubt I scream – fates! And in metaphysical exasperation I demand - Prove yourself to me. Prove me wrong.

And fate flatters itself. Stacking the cards against me. Reminding me this is not the way. Be a good girl. Make the right decision. Wait. Measure out your Smarties.

Yet here I stand, on my way to Scotland, ignoring the inconveniences that seem to spell out the universe's contrarian resolve; the cancelled flight, delayed trains, a lost hostel proceeding the harrowing late night journey in an unsafe neighbourhood, the inclement weather. . . I see fates closed fist and continue to wonder with addled constitution; do I duck and dodge, or swing back?

Here, surrounded by strangers, it again becomes safe enough to think. Submerged in anonymity and counting on the presence of others, it becomes safe enough to think of more then just life and limb. Like breathing the highlights stream-in to this visual perch; vaulted ceilings, seamless walls, uncomfortable chairs and baggage. It is only to slip away from tertiary fear to be caught again in an airport waiting room, a place afraid of its own utility, filled with transients.

 

Fates. Prove yourself to me. Prove me wrong. Otherwise is to remain a sceptic of sceptics. Otherwise is to be affirmed by silence. No need for a sign, to remain just another feeble human catastrophe. Just a thorn among the throng, a mutable hedge. Just apart of a simple flora fence along an innocuous street, tearing into this galactically negligible planet. Just a prick. One of billions sitting on the fringe of consciousness, not even in line to be picked last. 


Travelling hastily, the rest of the universe holds a transcended têtê à têtê' on interstellar immigration while we continue wobbling along, 20 feet every 433 days. Conscious as polar fleece we continue to be manicured with indignity believing in these innocuous streets while Grandma and Grandma hypo-terrestrial visit their mildly inbred grandson Glog in Sector 4 for Christmas, bringing presents purchased waiting for a worm hole. And despite the intelligence that goes zooming through the universe I remain here, stuck to this hedge, pointing obtusely, growing in the sun and staring in confusion at the man with the funny hat telling me I am more than just a thorn. More than a something, a piece of something. Capable. Able to effect action.