May I have “fun”?
Remember the days before we knew the word ‘nausea’ and we asked to be spun from our outstretched arms, our body defying gravity. We would come to a halt
half the time, on our knees,
all the time, back on our feet,
“That’s fun, again!”
I have entered rooms, presented with a challenge by an authority and contributed, “This would be fun.”
I would wait for a flinch and prepare for an entire paragraph on the severity of the matter.
Bitte, hör mir zu.
(This conversation never happened but it could well have.)
Fun is foreseeing cups of coffee, seeing lines of a language I barely understand, and finding ways to defy human time.
Fun is spending minutes before sleep overthinking and knowing my nights would be plagued with your sub conscience at work.
Fun is spending three hours on SketchUp and deleting it altogether because restarting beats fixing.
Fun is checking it thrice, no, four times before cutting and working till midnight because you spent an hour pacing the floor.
Fun is full of self-doubt so that I will always give more.
Fun is preparing the calendar for dinner cancellations.
I say, fun times, when I start a new lifting programme and see 10 reps of anything.
Fun is losing my way and discovering all the streets.
“I have a skewed sense of fun. Ha.”
(make quotation marks with your fingers for truce; parenthesis within parenthesis: it is as if peace bent over.)
May I have fun now? I refuse to spend my life any other way.