Living and telling the tale

6 June, 2011 – I palisaded my mind, and did so for a little too long. Bolted the door and fortified from within. Immune to outward sensations, I stopped tasting, living, expressing myself. Stopped enjoying life’s absurdities. Rattled in ways that I didn’t begin to understand; both shaken and stirred. Taking down the spikes, cooking again, I emerge blinking in the sunlight. With scars, yes, but nothing more than briar prickles around the ankles. Roused, I ask a different and better hotchpotch of questions: not ‘Do I have a sense of taste’ and ‘Can I cook?’, but ‘Which tastes do I like?’, ‘What do I want to cook?’, ‘Which tastes do I want have?’.

I’ll take a chance

30 May, 2011 – Pitiful broccoli. Bought with the best intentions, now neglected, withering from within. Straining in shrink-wrap at the bottom of the fridge. Consuming itself, burning sugars once stored for blooming and laying down woody fibres.