Argentina

You know when you’re on the bus

and you’re coming back from the supermarket

(because, after 4 attempts, you finally succeeded in forcing yourself to go outside)

and all the windows are steamed up

(because it’s raining and everyone is breathing each other’s breath)

and you’re eating a punnet of cherries

(because you panicked and had to purchase something after walking around the store for an hour, for fear of getting accused of shoplifting)

and you’re wearing huge, fuck-off sunglasses

(because you absolutely cannot make eye-contact with any male passenger on the bus while eating cherries, else they will almost certainly decide to rape you and you’ll be humiliated in court when the defence say you were asking for it, because you were eating cherries suggestively whilst on public transport and looking at your soon-to-be rapist like the seductive temptress slut that you are)

and you can’t really see past anything in front of you anyway

(because your eyes are so sad and tired of blinking that they have decided to stop working properly)

and so you decide to scrutinise the punnet packaging

and the packaging annoys you but you’re not sure why or how

(because your brain isn’t allowing you to form coherent thoughts today)

and you see that they are a product of Argentina

Argentina

Argentina!

and you realise that the cherry in your hand was once in someone else’s hand, half way across the world,

and that these cherries were growing quietly while so much was happening in your little life in London, and you weren’t even aware of their existence, and yet here they are

and the cherries have come such a long fucking way

and here they are, in your hand, to go into your belly

and you didn’t even know that they were alive

and you start crying

(because they’ve come all the way from Argentina)

and you imagine the people who have held these cherries before you

and you imagine the poor Argentinian labourer with dirty hands and hungry children

and you imagine the cherries on their boat from fucking Argentina

and you imagine the cherries arriving at this fucking supermarket just outside the M25

and you just cry

and cry

(because they came all the way from Argentina)

and you’re shaking a lot and having difficulty breathing

and then suddenly you think

“Don’t cry for me Argentina”

and you start laughing, hysterically, a freakish sort of cackling-crying-sobbing-sniggering-mess

and you sit there laughing and crying about Argentina for 25 minutes

and when you get off the bus you are holding your cherries

and you can’t see

(because it’s dark and you’re wearing sunglasses and your eyes have stopped working properly)

and you step out from behind the bus and into the path of a car

and it stops right on your thigh

and you stand there searching for the eyes of the driver but it’s too dark

and you start running to you’re not sure where

and you scream suddenly

(because you thought that small bollard was actually a small child and it scared you)

and you aren’t sure whether it is Wednesday or Friday

and you hide in an empty car park with your cherries

and you sit on the floor in a shallow puddle and smoke a cigarette

and you think

“Every second of rainfall brings me a second closer to my death”

and you just slowly lay down with your cheek on the wet asphalt

(because you’re so, so tired)

(because you can’t remember anything)

and stay there for you’re not sure how long

and then the caretaker of the building finds you

and helps you up

and takes you home

(because apparently you’ve done this before and he knows where you live)

(because you can’t remember anything)?

You know those times?

Yeah. Thought you might.

#bipolarprobz