On Toast

Down, up, down, up. This toaster doesn’t work properly, and each push downwards pushes me further into the day. I enter it without quite forming my words, or forming myself. With each failed attempt I move further away from where I began, the seemingly wholesome yeast of my existence.

I think of where I could be, cutting through the crust of uncertainty to be met by the soft fluffiness of purpose. Purpose is imminent because there was a point earlier in the process where I proved myself by moving from one state to another. A transition was made from a baking tin of semi consciousness to one of complete awareness, from which I arose as a new person. I did of course implement patience when getting ready, being careful not to open doors so as to confuse my new state of consciousness.

If I was feeling confident I would have scattered poppy seeds or embedded olives, but I don’t want to get ahead of myself and thus affect the routine. To be propelled successfully into the day is to be propelled from an idea of simplicity, a plain white one perhaps. As I push myself forward I leave crumbs around, they are mini projections, snippets of potentialities that may materialize through the various decisions I make during the day. They are however just sub-genres of this chunk of a decision I have made and now proceed to spread with butter. Of course, it doesn’t have to end there – there are a plethora of ideas that I may adorn upon my golden crusted starting point. However, I shan’t delve into this subject quite yet for it may be more appropriate to address it at lunch time. Without any further ado I spring forward from one textural bite towards a smooth journey and carbohydrate induced productivity.

This is where I could be, but alas it is not where I am. Down, up, down, up. The spaces between them grow smaller until it becomes apparent that I will never reach the pinnacle of this part of the routine. I will never get to ‘toast.’ Instead, I am left with this liminal square, my granary slate, ‘best of both,’ void of character. At a loss of what to do other than to lather with butter and at once becoming a conductor of dull notes. I try to alter my state of consciousness so I can approach the day with some lucidity, but it is too late and the decision I made has become stale. The tentatively bitten morning stares back at me, set in stone beneath a rapidly congealing butter substitute. Perhaps I should have had cereal instead, but that of course comes with its own set of problems.



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