Through flight

Wading through life is a bit like trying to dig a hole in soft sand – you can scoop out as much as you want, but the grains of its circumference will tumble back in as surely as the tide licks in and out with each stroke of a moon.

The boiler’s been replaced, hot water restored, flat cleaned and sorted, laundry washed and folded, lists drawn up and calls made. And still I’m coming down with flu.

And still we’re flying out on Saturday.

And the Saturday grains mingle with the grains of impending flu until the two are so indecipherable, I can’t tell if we’re flying out of rain or into sun; if I’m digging a tunnel or burying myself alive.

So I’m fixing my gaze on being there, however quickly the hole fills and whatever happens in the interim, because regardless of how I perceive these physics, I am going on holiday.

There is no other dimension.