Ugly Ducklings and Rousseau
Lately, I’ve been trying to control the weather. And it goes without saying: I’ve been failing badly.
30–06–1973
While waiting for the train to work, I looked up at the sky and focused all my energy on willing the clouds to pour some rain. I closed my eyes, thinking about the grey clouds opening their floodgates and sending a pitter-patter of gentle rain down to the earth, towards my parched heart and hungry soul. However, all I got was a bit of wind — and I even ended up missing my train. Heaving a deep sigh, I walked to the nearest circus and watched the trapeze artists swing from one bar to the other. Their effortless movements and smooth transitions brought tears to my eyes — there was a divine grace in their manoeuvres. I ended up howling, howling for all the misery I have had to go through. The circus staff politely escorted me towards the exit, claiming that I was disturbing both the artistes and the audience. Amongst the escorts was a woman wearing a pink top, and setting my eyes upon her I instantly had to pluck a hair from my overgrown beard — it’s just a habit that I’ve come to adopt. Sitting in the dirty alleyway surrounded by ugly rubber ducklings, I mulled over the philosophical reflections of Voltaire and Rousseau. Lucky bastards. Nothing could make it any worse. Except one thing — with a blast of thunder, the clouds started pouring what they had been holding for the entire day.