#137 Jesus on Your Toast

When you were a kid, did you lie on your back and see what shapes you could find in the clouds? I think everyone does it. If not the clouds, then maybe you saw a face in your mash potato, a dog in some smoke, Jesus on your toast. I once saw Michael Jackson in steam on a mirror. Did you know that that phenomenon, that moment of spotting a familiar pattern somewhere that pattern can’t really exist, is called pareidolia? Did you know it comes from the Greek words ‘para’, meaning alongside, or in this case wrong, and ‘eidōlon’ meaning image? I bet you didn’t, I had to use Wikipedia.

When I look up to the clouds now though, I don’t see shapes and I don’t see the ‘wrong-image’. I don’t see anything because I’m only ever looking for the right image, and she went away.

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#136 A Chip

“Mark, you’re too cynical.”

He rolled his eyes. “I’m not cynical, I just have a realistic expectation that most things in the world are against me and that everything that isn’t is probably either too stupid or too boring to care about anyway.”

“So what am I?”

“What do you mean?”

Sally sighed. “Am I against you, stupid, or boring?”

“You know you aren’t any of those things.”

“Well, according to you, everything is one of them.”

“You’re different. You’re unique. You’re special.”

“How long has it been since you’ve actually believed anything that’s come out of your mouth?”

Mark, for once, had nothing to say. They’d had this argument, or ones like it, so many times before, but this felt different.

“You’re empty Mark, nothing but a chip on your own shoulder. I’m done… We’re done.”

She walked out. Mark stared after her. Now he really did feel empty.

#135 A Conversation

Your eyes scream at me. I weep in response. It feels like blood.

“Please help.” You yell with every glance.

With each teardrop I shout, “I want to!” With each sob I whisper, “I can’t.”

You seem so small now, so shrivelled, like a grape left all day in the sun. Your eyelids droop, too heavy to hold open, your body slumps, all fight gone. You used to be full of such passion, such spirit, but I suppose that’s why it all had to end.

I clear my throat, “You did this.” It was supposed to be quiet, but it came out a shout, “You’re my husband, you’re meant to be mine.” You don’t respond. “That’s rude Sam.” I rattle the chains, still nothing. I think that you’ve gone.