This or that. Right or Wrong. True or False.
Decisions, decisions, decisions.
When the mind is lulled into a cocoon, it is hard to decide, unless something comes around and gives it a hard knock, a wake up call, a deciding moment.
You have to either get on the bus or not. The tube gears up to leave and gets to supersonic speed level within half a minute. Unlike an ordinary train, the Metro gathers pace at the speed of light and there isn't time to decide whether to board or not. Falter and you might just be dead. Caught and pulverised by the high-tech bogies.
Today I missed two buses in a row. The first, cause I let it pass, the second cause I wrongly gauged the amount of time it would halt at my stop. Split second decison.
That was my wake up call, reflexes gone slow. Time to get up and get going, time to start getting into shape again. Start jogging again. Sometimes I am tempted to sleep, to close my eyes and be a child again. To make a pillow out of the first to greet me with a kind word. To trust, with a fierce self centredness oblivious to the wants of the other. To accept it as a permit to intrude into their space.
Fairytales can do that to you. Lull you in their sugary syrupy warm delicious embrace. Oblivious to the real world. Day must follow night, the lullaby has to end. Sleep must give up to wakefullness.
But is life kind? Could it offer you another chance after the sleep. By the sleep to say we end The heartache and the thousand natural shocks. To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub; For in that sleep of death what dreams may come?
Yes, but then there is also the decision.
To be or not to be.
To die: to sleep; No more; and by a sleep to say we end The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks/ That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep; To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub; For in that sleep of death what dreams may come/ When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, Must give us pause: there's the respect/ That makes calamity of so long life; For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely, The pangs of despised love, the law's delay, The insolence of office and the spurns/ That patient merit of the unworthy takes, When he himself might his quietus make/ With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear, To grunt and sweat under a weary life, But that the dread of something after death, The undiscover'd country from whose bourn/ No traveller returns, puzzles the will And makes us rather bear those ills we have/ Than fly to others that we know not of? Thus conscience does make cowards of us all; And thus the native hue of resolution Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought, And enterprises of great pith and moment/ With this regard their currents turn awry, And lose the name of action. - Soft you now!
The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons Be all my sins remember'd.

The country from where no traveller returns, disappears like a ghost. Quite tempting, to leave the sweat and the grime and the dirt and fly away.
But promises stare at me from the walls of my room. whitewashed over and over, the pages of the diary remind me of dreams, plans, music, friends.
There are still miles and miles to go before the sleep, miles to go and promises to keep to myself and many. Promises that were burried under layers of solitude and shutting out people.
Stories to be told, journeys to be travelled, and homes to be built. Can't sleep now. Not yet!
Decision to stay.
This. True. Right.
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Everybody is made of boxes. yes. Some people have neat ordered ones with even little labels attached. Intrusion of one into the other causes a great deal of conflict and discomfort.
For some others it is a jumble. Euphemism for mess. Unorganised and spilling into one another. The boxes are so locked into one another like a lego playkit that it is impossible to detach one from the other.
Try and the mess multiplies. Life, Work, Love, Relationships, Religion, Death.... all entwined in one big bundle. Seeping into one another.
It comes as a package and one box cannot be handed over individually. Cannot be scrutinised independantly. One falls and the entire edifice comes crashing down just like a pack of cards.
For the second lot of people, the boxes are them. One gooey, big blob. All who come into contact with these "boxes" people are bound to get stuck in the glue. Dont shake hands with them cause your hands get sticky. Touch them and its like chewing gum. Ew! Sticky.
Oftentimes these 'box' people cut a sorry figure. Invade personal spaces and have to be surgically cut off from those they have invaded.
Hints of "the gum tastes like rubber" do not serve the purpose. Remember the 'boxes' are all stuck together.
Change is painful, surgery is nervewrecking. Moral of the lesson, never let the boxes mingle. The bubble of the sugary gum is gonna burst and stick the boxes together. Scares off a lot of people.
Neat boxes, labelled with clinical precison. It should be, Always.