The Goldfish and The Giant Squid.

Sometimes we walk through life seeing nothing, thinking only of ourselves, of our own problems, like fish in tanks with fake scenery sellotaped to the glass. The people we pass in the street are plastic divers and all the buildings are hollow castles. And then sometimes the glass shatters and we explode out into the air of our infinite existence, to flounder on the carpet, gasping with the sharp realisation of the truth.

Today I plaited my hair and piled it up on my head and lay in bed all day, like Frida Kahlo. I felt happy, for a few moments, at the comparison. Then I remembered she'd spent all day in bed because she broke her back in a tram accident, and spent endless hours lying in agony, where, nevertheless she painted canvas after beautiful canvas. I on the other hand, was lying, out of choice, in a matchbox bedroom under a duvet with dragons on, flipping aimlessly through a book on French Grammar whilst listening to Django Reinhardt. On my bedside table was a bowl rimmed with crusty oatmeal. How vile, how enclosed was my existance; how vain my thoughts, how void my actions.

I burst out onto the street and lock my glass door behind me. The springtime air is beautiful and fresh. I walk down streets I've never seen before and take in everything in one big wonderful panorama. The sky is splendid in colours I haven't seen for days, or weeks. Perhaps ever. In the cold I can feel all of my skin at once.

We should be less like goldfish in tanks. We should be like... Like giant squid in the depths of the ocean. Surrounded by miles and miles of everything at all sides, with big round eyes to take in all that deep blue beauty. Listening to all the sounds of the ocean at once, conscious of all the creatures in our proximity, in the distance, in existence. Letting our tentacles float out around us in the cold, feeling everything at once.