Sometimes life boils down to the smallest, sweetest things. Sometimes? Okay, often. Today was an ok day, run of the mill, accomplished a few things, no big. I walked my usual walk to the train station, missed the train by a minute, as per standard. This is ok because it gives me time to read or, as in the case of today, listen to music. This was exciting for me today because I had new music on my phone, music that I had long thought about obtaining and music which I finally did, on the weekend. Time. Well. Spent.
So I am walking down the ramp, and Smokey is like silk in my ears. Fantastic voice, and it’s all it takes to put me in a good mood. I mean, I wasn’t so down, but this has pushed me up. The next part to this story is the kiwifruit (NOT a kiwi) in my bag, for which I have no utensils, but which I have been contemplating just biting the fuck into for some minutes, prompted mostly by the growling of my ever-impatient stomach.
I remove the kiwifruit, and it’s hard and feels like it’s going to taste like shit; like, too ripe and with that sweetness that it can’t really pull off. But, when I sink my teeth into it, it’s beautiful: not too hard, tart, with a brilliant little kick. I scoop out the inside with my teeth, and throw the skin into the bushes (urban organic recycling, people), and then I eat the rest in the same way. Excellent. The music is now Stevie Wonder, and it fits perfectly. Thank you shuffle. I do that innocuous little dance/walk you do when you are in a good mood but you don’t want to outright dance on a train platform. I look at the train tracks, and then at the sky, and I allow myself a grin. A big, crazy-person grin that would be considered creepy if I were facing anyone (and maybe still is).
Life is a strange motherfucker. Music is the eggs to its bacon, the coffee to its cigarettes, the blood to its body. And kiwifruit aint bad either, on those rare occasions when it’s done right. Tell me I'm wrong.