The weekly routine,
Friday afternoon,
meeting grandma,
with mum.
Trudging
between shops.
Drudgery, tedium,
Constant stop start.
Conversations.
Grandma must know everyone.
Boredom,
I just want to be
at home,
but I'm struggling along.
Cafe, shops, nothing interesting,
no excitement, just stagnation.
Oh, now she's stopped to talk again,
can we go home, mum?
But one thing
always lies at the end of the line...
A shelf of chocolates, treats,
sweets of all sizes and shapes,
any flavour,
and I get to choose...
One.
The world
stops turning and I feel a familiar
burning in my head.
If I pick that one,
then the other would
have been better.
But then if I pick that one,
I'm missing out
on the potential that
lies within this.
The mist starts to eclipse my mind,
and all I see is a blur of colours.
How can having choice be so unkind?
If I take the risk I may not like it,
but it shines so brightly.
Mum is pleading with me,
pick something, we need to leave,
Grandma is getting tetchy.
But my mind is itchy, and I fall, I cry,
the voice in my mind screaming loud,
and the one outside
whimpering on the ground.
And I end up with none,
feeling more glum
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