The little martian feels very tired
He doesn’t know what to say to me and I thank him for that. It's nice not to have everyone saying things to me, telling me how I should be feeling, how much I should be feeling, and who I should be feeling it for.
The little martian lets me be.
I look up at him and thank him
He nods, my little Jedi, ever understanding, ever relaxed.
“Do you think I’m overthinking this?” I ask him
The little martian shakes his head
“Do you think I’m reading into this because there is a logical reason for reading into it or do you think I'm reading into it because I like reading?”
The little martian snorts at this one but remains silent.
“Do you think it’s a pattern? Human behaviour? Are we all just playing out the same patterns with different people? Is it worth it?”
The little martian meets my eye, he nods for me to go on.
I feel like I’m overpaying a very silent therapist to nod at me every couple of minutes while I swirl in my whirlpool of indecision all by myself.
“Is it supposed to feel so scary? This fear that just won’t roll over and sleep. is it in my head? Where is my head? Can I trust my head? Is my head on my side?”
I'm blabbering now, but it feels good to get it all out there.
The little martian glances up from the leather binder that magically appeared on his lap a few seconds ago. He scribbles something officiously and glances back up at me
“Go on,” he says gently.
“ This nagging doubt..this constant fear of everything falling apart. Why bother going through the motions of a motion that's bound to stop you know? It feels ridiculously counterproductive. “
The little martian reaches into the bag under his chair and pulls something out, it looks like a cigar.. i spot the comic sans crayola logo on its sticker. ha?
he continues his officious scrawling. I watch him intently.
I'm dying to know what he makes of all this. What’s his analysis? What does he think? What conclusion has he drawn from all my scattered rambling?!
I ask him just as much
He smiles, adjusts his round-rimmed spectacles (when did those appear ?), and clears his throat
“What do you want to do?”, he responds, cryptic as ever.
“I want someone to tell me what to do so I don’t get hurt. I'm two toes in, I'm about to dip the third, I don’t want the sharks to strike now, I like my toes, they help me walk and get places, they-“
The martian snorts, cutting my toe rant short.
He tosses his little binder into my lap. And walks out of the room.
The officious scribbling reveals itself to be little more than doodles.
There is a bright yellow sun shining down on a messily coloured landscape.
An uneven river flows through brown rocky hills and a little straw hut sits by the babbling riverside. The cartoon sun wears chunky sunglasses as it emits long loud rays, shiny, bright, and happy.
In between the hastily scribbled rays sit the words my prophetic martian has left for me after careful examination of my frazzled mind
His messy block print spells it out for me in bright orange crayon
“Chill the fuck out.“
Comments