Dear God
Or whoever
I would like to be re-programmed
I’m not saying you made a mistake
Just that somewhere down the line I lost an important feature
And unlike a computer
Or a car
I can’t just call customer support and have myself serviced
So I turn to you
You made me
Please fix me
It is your plan for men and women to meet?
Fall in love?
Get married?
Have children?
Because if so;
Why have you made us so different?
Why do women drop hints,
If men don’t know how to pick them up?
Why do women believe men should make the first move,
When they’re just as scared of it as we are?
Why do men want woman who are forward,
And then call them cheap when we are?
Somewhere
Somehow
Something went horribly wrong
Someone got the wrong idea
Someone changed the rules
And we’re the ones suffering for it
Now men are scared to act
Because they think women want to do it
And women are scared to act
Because they think men don’t like it
And so we watch each other from different corners
Afraid to go near
Afraid to speak
Afraid to feel
Or, at least to let others know we do
So, God
I would like to be re-programmed
Not upgraded
Not scanned for bugs
Not filled with new and better software
I want the old software
The kind that worked
onsdag 24. mars 2010
[no name]
The stadium is full of people. An excited buzz of voices, drowning out the music pouring from the sound systems and the speaker as he tries to give information. Flags are unrolled, scarves are tied around arms, waists, necks or heads. The smell of hot dogs, coffee and popcorn fills the air. Down on the pitch, the sprinklers shower the perfect grass. A few seagulls fly overhead. You can hear a faint roar of cars going by on the express-way just a stone throw from the stadium. People are discussing tactics everywhere. Who’s fit to play, will the team have changes. How many goals to zero will the final scoreboard show?
And amidst all this, I sit. I’m part of it. I have my hot dog, my coffee. I’m reading the programme, checking to see what the coaches have to say, who the other teams are playing. Discussing tactics with my dad. Looking for familiar names in the other team’s line-up.
But that’s all just to kill time. I’m waiting for you.
Ever since I first saw you run onto a football pitch, I’ve had an incurable desire for you. Sure, in its early days it was no more than a mere infatuation. I was quite young and innocent back then. But as years have passed, and I have aged, the infatuation has changed nature many times and has now reached heights that would have made the 14-year-old who fell for you blush at the mere thought.
I watched you live once before. Before you came here. To join my favourite side. I don’t remember much of the game, only that it was one of my first tastes of live football. And there you were, running around looking just as gorgeous as you always had on TV.
And now you’re here.
Some of the visiting players are inspecting the pitch. There are debates going about artificial grass as opposed to the real thing. Personally, having watched several teams play on what can only be characterised as potato fields, I can see no reason why artificial grass shouldn’t be the future. A perfect, even pitch every time.
The players exit the field. The speaker cranks up the music, making it hard to talk. I sip my coffee, thinking. Not of anything particular or exciting, but just drifting away. Often my mind drifts to you. Because I know it won’t be long before you run on pitch too. It’s almost time to start warming up.
The supporter club is growing in numbers. Someone starts a lone song, joined by a few more, but it dies quickly into laughs. The rest of the stadium is filling slowly. People are waving to each other from different stands, while talking on the phone. The kids on the pitch are reluctantly moving towards the player’s tunnel, knowing they have to give way to the big boys soon.
Finally, there’s a familiar figure emerging onto the pitch. The supporter club has spotted him, and they start cheering. The rest of us join in, and he acknowledges us by clapping back while heading for his goal. The keeper is always the first one. He seems to prefer a few quiet runs before the others show up. But before long they start pouring onto the pitch too. More applause, more acknowledging claps and waves.
And finally, last and late as always, you emerge. I could spot you from a mile away. I watch as you clap to us before joining your team-mates warming up. I watch you run back and forth across the pitch. Study you. Try to remember every detail of how you move. How your hair is today, how the muscles in your thighs move. You think I can’t spot that from up here? You look focused already. Some of the other players are chatting, passing the ball back and forth, joking. But you, you just run.
I watch as you warm up, taking in the team, figuring out the line up. And after half an hour, you exit the pitch along with the rest of them. The pre match entertainment starts.
And before long, you’re back on the pitch. And I’m back to watching. The game as much as you this time. But you all the same.
I’ve watched you for countless games now. Watched and wanted you. Seen you despair, and celebrate. Seen you score, and miss. And watched you thank the fans after every game, knowing I myself am one of them. Pretending you see me in the crowd.
I know you don’t see me. I know I’m only one in ten thousand. And that even if you did see me, it wouldn’t be in the way I want you to. I know you’re married. I know you have three adorable children. I know you’d never abandon that for me. Nor do I want you to.
But I can’t help but let my mind wander. And even if I could, I’m not so sure I would. Where would the mind be without its fantasies and crazy ideas?
All of which I indulge in later in the evening, curled up under my covers, the images of you fresh in my mind. Your smile, your body, the way you move. I have several scenarios I drift away to when I close my eyes.
And amidst all this, I sit. I’m part of it. I have my hot dog, my coffee. I’m reading the programme, checking to see what the coaches have to say, who the other teams are playing. Discussing tactics with my dad. Looking for familiar names in the other team’s line-up.
But that’s all just to kill time. I’m waiting for you.
Ever since I first saw you run onto a football pitch, I’ve had an incurable desire for you. Sure, in its early days it was no more than a mere infatuation. I was quite young and innocent back then. But as years have passed, and I have aged, the infatuation has changed nature many times and has now reached heights that would have made the 14-year-old who fell for you blush at the mere thought.
I watched you live once before. Before you came here. To join my favourite side. I don’t remember much of the game, only that it was one of my first tastes of live football. And there you were, running around looking just as gorgeous as you always had on TV.
And now you’re here.
Some of the visiting players are inspecting the pitch. There are debates going about artificial grass as opposed to the real thing. Personally, having watched several teams play on what can only be characterised as potato fields, I can see no reason why artificial grass shouldn’t be the future. A perfect, even pitch every time.
The players exit the field. The speaker cranks up the music, making it hard to talk. I sip my coffee, thinking. Not of anything particular or exciting, but just drifting away. Often my mind drifts to you. Because I know it won’t be long before you run on pitch too. It’s almost time to start warming up.
The supporter club is growing in numbers. Someone starts a lone song, joined by a few more, but it dies quickly into laughs. The rest of the stadium is filling slowly. People are waving to each other from different stands, while talking on the phone. The kids on the pitch are reluctantly moving towards the player’s tunnel, knowing they have to give way to the big boys soon.
Finally, there’s a familiar figure emerging onto the pitch. The supporter club has spotted him, and they start cheering. The rest of us join in, and he acknowledges us by clapping back while heading for his goal. The keeper is always the first one. He seems to prefer a few quiet runs before the others show up. But before long they start pouring onto the pitch too. More applause, more acknowledging claps and waves.
And finally, last and late as always, you emerge. I could spot you from a mile away. I watch as you clap to us before joining your team-mates warming up. I watch you run back and forth across the pitch. Study you. Try to remember every detail of how you move. How your hair is today, how the muscles in your thighs move. You think I can’t spot that from up here? You look focused already. Some of the other players are chatting, passing the ball back and forth, joking. But you, you just run.
I watch as you warm up, taking in the team, figuring out the line up. And after half an hour, you exit the pitch along with the rest of them. The pre match entertainment starts.
And before long, you’re back on the pitch. And I’m back to watching. The game as much as you this time. But you all the same.
I’ve watched you for countless games now. Watched and wanted you. Seen you despair, and celebrate. Seen you score, and miss. And watched you thank the fans after every game, knowing I myself am one of them. Pretending you see me in the crowd.
I know you don’t see me. I know I’m only one in ten thousand. And that even if you did see me, it wouldn’t be in the way I want you to. I know you’re married. I know you have three adorable children. I know you’d never abandon that for me. Nor do I want you to.
But I can’t help but let my mind wander. And even if I could, I’m not so sure I would. Where would the mind be without its fantasies and crazy ideas?
All of which I indulge in later in the evening, curled up under my covers, the images of you fresh in my mind. Your smile, your body, the way you move. I have several scenarios I drift away to when I close my eyes.
Random bursts of creative writing
Sometimes something.
Sometimes nothing.
Mostly just anything.
Stay tuned.
Sometimes nothing.
Mostly just anything.
Stay tuned.
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