Lines In The Snow

It's easy to create an impression on the world when you are younger,
albeit briefly. It's more satisfying. Standing there watching the lines
appear, steam rising from the cold ground, the white staining yellow.
Lines in the snow.

You think it's not supposed to be like this. Most people you know are
married, a few have children on the way, not that you want kids. Not
yet. Or be married. It would be good to be with someone though. Someone
to share your thoughts with; your life, your hopes, dreams and
passions. Not this purgatorial limbo your life seems to have run into.
Neither moving forward or backward, creating a metaphorical dust circle
when you should be creating a straight line. Lines in the snow.

Someone you know creates their own lines. On a mirror. Credit cards do
the creating. After a line he doesn't shut up. SHUT UP! You wish people
would be quiet. Leave you alone, especially when you're tired or ill.
SHUT UP! You need the peace and quiet. Always talking about how
wonderful, great, good, okay, their lives are. Better than yours. After
work you go home. They go drinking and line making. They ask you. Or
they used to, not so much now, expecting the same answer. No. You are
not interested. Their lives are circular, your life is continuing in a
straight line, you tell - convince - yourself. Lines in the snow.

Thirty. At home, sitting on an office style, black chair. Hands on the
keyboard, hovering over, clutching the hand-shaped - sculpted - device
called a mouse. Pushing the buttons, typing the addresses. Looking.
Searching. Following a straight line, sometimes spinning back on
yourself, creating a random, circle with a new starting point but an
old finish. You find what you are looking for, sometimes. You like
something particular. Your own peculiar fetish. At least society calls
it a fetish. For you it's normal. Straight. Long. Hard. Rubbing. Slow
then fast. Faster. Passion build-up. Passion released. Passion finish.
Sticky white stain. Lines in the snow.

Piss splashing the porcelain. Alone, watching your fluids splatter
against the white porcelain. Cracked, white porcelain. Pissed. Friday.
Same. Still thinking, drunkenness doesn't stop the thoughts, just makes
them seem more plausible. You should do it. What's stopping you? The
people you came with won't notice if you step outside. Won't notice if
you left and went home. Their not really interested in what you have to
say. Voices. Speech. People talk but don't hear. Not interested. You
haven't been talking or listening. Just looking. Drinking the beer.
Staring at the girls, fantasising about them, knowing they are not
interested in you. Not one dot. Lines in the snow.

You step outside.
Snow crunches under your slow, purposeful, leaden, footsteps. Grooved
impressions, which will last only until morning, showing up behind
you.
You walk into a backyard. Snow is softer here; powder like on top,
harder underneath. You breathe out, breath fogging, freezing in the
air. You unzip, pull your flesh out and relax you bladder. Warmth heats
cold. A mini-weather system operating at your whim. Steam rises.
Straight not circular. You smile. The satisfaction doesn't change. You
feel the same as you felt when you were younger. In control; of your
life, your destiny. Lines in the snow.