P is for paralysis panting

1) At 5pm yesterday I finally turned the television and the radio off and decided that I had heard enough emotional media crap for the day, seen enough pictures of ambulances and bandaged faces and buses torn open like cans of catfood; and my lover came over, through streets devoid of traffic, peopled with hundreds of idle workers talking in quiet voices.
So she came over..

2) Time to shake off the paralysis and live, for fuck’s sake.. Conjure up a bubble and be safe; forget, that her (highly cynical) job involves using and selling yesterday’s events; forget that I’d bawled earlier in the day.
Live, and run to the station to meet her, and sweat and pant a bit because I can’t run for more than three minutes; smile, and hug, and eat and drink, and shed our clothes, and fuck, because it’s life, and life has to win over paralysis.

3) Later after sweating and panting some more we lay entangled, paralysis fully at bay.
- no but seriously, what other grown up activity can you thoroughly lose yourself in? I ask.
The answer comes as I barely hit the question mark:
-Football!
- Ah. Of course. Should have known.
She laughs.
- This is blogging material, you know, I threaten.
- So now I’m blogging material. I see.
- Honey, everybody and everything is blogging material.
- Even this? And this? What about… this..?
Breathtaking. Can’t possibly blog about it.
Personally, I think it beats football anytime.