I woke to rain today. The cool air chased away yesterday’s heat, when a coloniser’s finger removed the pin from the safety clip of the grenade that lived inside my head. An explosion no one witnessed followed by rocks of my consciousness rolling downhill. Cut off in mid sentence, I forgot that I was telling you about a vagrant in an army jacket that liked to sit at a bus stop picking at his scabs. But he wasn’t picking at scabs that day, no, he was reading the paper. I peered over his shoulder which shook with repressed laughter and spied the cartoons page. Why does he laugh, I wondered, when he read nor spoke no English? Ah, another pretender, a man after my own soul; I too never let on. We are still having these conversations as if my brain hadn’t been blown out.
Art by Micrito LaNiñaPollo. A cheerful collaboration between fellow migraineurs.