To be in motion,

one must breathe.

To be in positive and productive motion,

one likely will be out of breath.

. . .

The conversation began to poison the air.  To call it a conversation may be a slightly perverse notion.  It was perhaps more of a monologue that had only one audience member and hence only one victim.  I pressed my palm to my ear and scrubbed it in a circular motion as if to shoo away a cloud of hungry mosquitoes, intent on flying through my ear canal and sucking blood from my brain.  I pondered the notion that those who complain often have a script printed on old leathery paper that smells of rot and decay.  The words are fixed, and the heart of the speaker is calloused.  I considered the notion that, to complain is human, sure I will give you that, but to suffer in the stagnation of idle circumstance, blaming everyone but self is toxic and in my opinion, a choice.

I managed to push out a few words under the blanket of a heavy sigh, “Have you considered doing something?” Or was it, “That person has been doing this particular volume of good things for me.”  Whatever it was that I spoke, it was slain in a fury of toxic words from my brief audience.  The suggestion of action or reevaluation of details apparently was not conducive with vomit of words I was enduring. The monologue resumed, and I left the room without speaking.

The silent and crisp winter air caressed my red cheeks as I sipped on hot and sweet coffee.  Then I imaged a swirling cloud of greenish poison drifting out of my head and becoming instantly devoured by a clear blue sky.

. . .

Copyright © 2018 Zachary W. Gilbert