I am in a place where I congratulate myself for merely opening my violin case, tuning my strings and fumbling a scale on the fingerboard. If by some miracle I make it any further, my soul seems to shrivel with dissatisfaction and hopelessness into one of those slimy slaves in Ursula’s cave, the name of which is frustratingly hard to find even on such magnanimous search engine like Google.
Curse thee Google for being an inadequate means of completing my analogy! It’s moments like now when I rely on your infinite cache of intellect, and on my writing of significant or insignificant things, to convince me that my brain is still able to flaunt a pinch of creativity and determination.
I am trying…
Okay, I just found it on Disney Wiki, they are called Polyps:
I am in a place where the question of my future is a muddy boulder chained to my ankle that drops dirt everywhere I go.
dribbles filth along the
knobbly London roads when I pedal to class.
It stains the carpet of the seminar room and, when I get home
The wood of my bedroom floor. At night it’s a huge bulky mess on my single bed that
nudges me to the brink of
Now and again someone will see how much of a mess I am making in my environs, satisfies her curiosity by asking ‘What are you planning to do after it all ends?’ I smile a shapeless smile, emit an unattractive sniffly snigger and look despairingly at that gross ball of meaningless weight, as if to say, ‘Well, can’t you tell?’
The only places through which the boulder cannot pass are, to my surprise, the kitchen, and to my non-surprise the little rectangles of paper that constitute my diary.
These restricted zones are the only places in the physical realm where I can still make something with my own hands. I can steam sea bass to a perfect melting texture and I can still write words with ink.
The sea bass was so f***ing good.