orange

this is possibly an exercise in detail in the mundane... or maybe it's just plain dull.

i picked the bud of the stem off the top and thought about how when i was little i used to think that those buds were little fairy hats. i moved the knife neatly through the orange, pleased by how easily and softly it sliced. i placed them in a bowl and leaned back against the kitchen sink, before picking up the slices up one by one, examining the pores in their skin and the veins in their flesh. i was very calm but i didn’t notice it. i ate each slice, slowly, carefully, precisely. i watched the juice fall across my wrinkled palms, into my fingernails. with my teeth i ripped the orange’s flesh from it’s rind, and let the sweet, soft tang stimulate my tongue before adding the rind to my tidy stack. i thought of how i never eat like this; i’ve forgotten that eating can be an experience in itself. i’m so used to eating while working, writing, talking, walking, watching a film, reading a book, moving, doing, etc… and then i thought about how time is… i don’t remember. something about time, free time is most useful when it’s rare? no. it was something much more poetic than that. i’m now kicking myself for forgetting.