All my life, I have tried and failed to resist the urge to do things too quickly.
Food is shovelled down the throat without interest in how it tastes or appears - the point is to consume the lot as quickly as possible, so that I might move onto.... well, nothing.
I have been unable to read properly for years, eyes blistering across the page and absorbing a handful of syllables at best.
Places and events whizz by in a blur, normally because I am moving far too quickly. The objective is to travel, but never to arrive.
I realised this, anew, earlier when I was racing through the streets to collect a prescription. I zig-zagged, swearing, in between pedestrians, moving out into the road to get around them. There were four hours before the surgery closed, and I started my journey some three minutes away.
This can't continue. It is too much insanity for no gain as I skim the surface of existence. I am a series of brief flickers, with no idea how one motivates the next.
It was with such things in mind that I abruptly cancelled my date for Saturday. It was amorphous, anyway - no time, no itinerary - because to be too enthusiastic is to court disaster.
After almost two years, I now know why Bluefish towers above all women. I have isolated the very thing which sets her apart, and I eye it greedily, knowing it is accessible to me once again.
Bluefish, the Australian girl at the far-flung end of the rainbow, was by her very geography the definition of unhurried. A day to get here, via South Korea, means nothing can be done in haste.
Bluefish, your spark was your infrequency. I did not even set eyes on you for more than six months, and it is this long ache which separates you from all others.
Now I must find it again, the deepest expression of human love, the prolonged note that builds to a crescendo before a wish is realised.
Only the slow can accomplish it, for it is not inevitable or a birthright. Through it, all desires are contingent, even if it entails the denial of your author's instinct.
