I stood surveying the world, the calm after the storm. I haven’t taken my medication. A young mother is taking her young child to school. He was trying to tell her something but they both stopped and stared at me before quickly hurrying on. I’m barefoot as the postman stops and stare’s, whistles quietly to himself before turning his back and walking back up the street. It was raining last night, this morning all the worms have been driven up from the soil searching for air, droplets of water ran around the smooth curves of the blades of grass, hanging on for dear life to the tip of the blade, the molten ball of lava that was the sun rising in the east was captured in the tear shaped drop of water before it fell to the soil beneath it and vanished without a trace. All was still. All was silent. Then I heard a loud, short, snapping sound, followed by a much more prolonged crunching sound.
I looked down on the ground. I had accidentally stood on a snail on the ground. That little shiver of revulsion snaked its way up my spine as you realise you have trod on something. It like when you run over road-kill. That bump, that dull thump, it always make you a little queasy, just before you stop the car and get out, shoveling the dead animal in to the boot of your car for tomorrows dinner. It’s a recession don’t you know, and a badger is as good as a goose, if you cook it right.
I stared at the snail, all crushed and smashed, his guts glistening in the sunlight of a new day like an outré` inkblot. And I realised that I too was like that snail, I have built a defensive wall around myself, a shell of sorts, but my shell isn’t made of a hard protective substance, my shell is made of Nicki Minaj posters, tinfoil and semen.