Sometimes it creeps up on me. It did today, while I was making morning toast. It slowly peaked one eye out, as though it were checking if the “coast was clear,” and then it fumbles one little webbed toe, then another, then another until its whole foot is out. I feel the sticky but light pressure of that foot. Right here – right in the centre of my chest. This little beast goes by the name – Realist.
He whispers things then.
Do you think that’s actually possible?
Do you think people actually get to do that?
Do you think you are actually talented enough? Smart enough? Fast enough?
Times running out, do you think you will actually finish it?
The Realist is just full of actually-s. I can see it tapping that little webbed foot, waving a little webbed finger and shaking its smug little face as it jumps in to correct me – actually…
What are we to do with this Realist? Send him off to offer career counselling to teenagers I suppose – go crush some dreams there? Perhaps Realist would make a fine textbook editor, strictly in the medical and scientific fields, obviously. None of that ‘arty farty’ stuff or ‘lord’ forbid religious material. But then, Realist is such a sour old prick that he would probably through his webbs in the air and cry “No point! No point! It’s all been done/said/bread before….”
Huh? Bread? Well yes, I suppose I won’t mind some toast after all…
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