A pigeon pecks haphazardly at the tar at the base of the long and old silver-painted electricity pole, exactly outside Nerona pizzeria on Scott street. This as summer slinks into the city, ramps up the tempo, lengthens the days, forces everyone into shorts and last year's funky street wear. A lot of the skin that I see is white-white.
I peck around at the base of my life, jaw clenched, tired to the very sockets of my eyeballs, drinking a little too much, and a little too obsessively, while ending, beginning and then ending, again, relationships while fatally procrastinating with critical work I should have sunk my teeth into months ago. (Let's see if I can start it today and wrap it by Friday evening.)
A youngster with shiny eyes, a skateboard and long sack cloth-coloured dreads slinks past catching my hungry eyes.
The lines around my eyes are deep and more than ever, and more than ever I avoid my face in mirrors and the screens of my mobile, tablet.
I teach again tonight, I still need to prep; I'm sinking in admin at this the arse-end of the year. I have nothing left to teach, to give, I'm a husk of myself.
I get drunk and offensive, like last night, and piss two relationships off - one fatally, so much so that I'm even blocked. At least my stomach was full on food and wine and beer. What almost worries me is that I do not care; because I don't have anything left to give of myself.
I'm longing for a reprieve: yet the only one will be me keeping up to speed with what I need to do. Procrastination is ALL about fear; it's the fear of not being good enough.
The unexpected afternoon glass of chardonnay numbs me just enough to keep going.
[I took the pic close to dusk in Noordhoek just short of two weeks ago; it's completely unrelated to this afternoon, except unconsciously.]
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