The Fireball (at quarter to three)

I smiled the other day.

When Kerouac was in London on Baker Street, he literally went searching for Sherlock Holmes’ address…I think this is what happens if you lose your mind in semi-fiction. Writers are such wishful escapists.

This is by far my favourite book of his. The way he talks about his mother made me cry. He and I feel the same about our mothers, except that he treated his better than I treat mine. I just don’t know how to show appreciation. Whenever I try, it ends up in utter disappointment.

I try to avoid people, but at work, I bump into endless people from the past who want to catch up, and I’m not up for it. This little town is driving me crazy. Everyone in the town centre seems to know where I work! The bottle/can collectors have started to greet me at the train station too. I wish no one would know me by my face.

Last weekend somebody came to my work. I recognized him on the spot. I don’t think I’ll ever forget that rough face and full lips (yuk!). It was the first guy I ever tongue-kissed. He must be about thirty-three now. He was twenty-four when we met. Ah! Terrible memories! Thank God he didn’t buy anything because I would’ve gone hiding in the staff room. He gave me one quick glance from the other end of the shop, and I immediately knew: He remembered me. After serving several other customers, I noticed that he had gone already.

The past is evil. I’m a very nostalgic person, but it doesn’t change the fact that history itself is evil, as you can’t be sure of the facts.

I had a freaky déjà-vu on Tuesday. At work, a lady asked me what time it was. I said, “quarter to three.” The same thing happened to me the day after on Wednesday. A lady asked me the same thing at the exact same time. Quarter to three. It reminds me of the way my driving instructor wanted me to drive. “Keep your hands on the wheel at quarter to three. It seems to be the only way for you to remain on the street!”

Sometimes I feel like a total arsehole. (I know you agree.) I see old friends in the shopping centre, and I wouldn’t go up to them to say hi, even though I know they would have liked it. The good thing is that I always see them first.

So there he was with someone who looked like his girlfriend or something. I definitely wouldn’t walk up to an old friend who’s walking with his girlfriend, especially if I don’t know her and she doesn’t know me. She would only end up scrutinizing me, pulling a forced smile, thinking, “Who the fuck is she?” This happened twice this week. I don’t feel particularly welcome in their presence anymore.

But it’s a little bit difficult to hide your face if you happen to ring up old friends at the till. Old friends, past friends or acquaintances…whatever…they all make me think of the past and how I used to be – I don’t like it. All they know is the old me.

The “me” now is currently figuring things out.

I saw the yellow core in my body again. This time it was like a fireball; it hit my mind just before I fell asleep.

The day after, I heard about the asteroid Apophis, and I nearly shat my pants. I’m scared of self-fulfilling prophecies. You’re seriously not aware of them sometimes. Maybe I should quit reading the weekly horoscope. I don’t believe it, but I find it amusing. Asteroids, on the other hand, are not amusing. Why am I paranoid about something which will happen in nineteen years?

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