500 Words Or LessAnimeDull Tedious ShiteI Hate Science FictionThe Sporting Life

No Direction Home

no direction home

Chelsea 1      Birmingham City 1

I wish the words would escape me. I wish I could fall asleep and dream of magical realms, dream of imaginary cities full of tall and dangerous buildings, dream of fascinating high speed trains. And upon awakening, I will find that all the words have vanished, vanished like a herd of spectral deer into the depths of the winter woods. I wish I wish….

But there is no escape, not even in dreams. The words are still there, simmering over an open flame. Inconsistent. Uninspired. Paltry. Insipid. Uninspired. Insufferable. Intolerable. Horrible. Incontinent. Piss-poor. Wretched. Miserable.

I would ask you to hold on a second while I thumb through Rodale’s Synonym Finder. But there is no need. You already now the rest of the words. And if only it were as simple as leaving them unspoken.

When, in my wishes, I closed my eyes, I had better dreams. Magical realms filled with imaginary cities and spectral high speed trains. If only Chelsea could have closed their eyes instead of me. There, in their dream world of mine, they’d be carried away to the depths of the winter woods with victory in hand….they’d be as spectral deer, mighty, magnificent and a fleeting glorious and soul-filling beauty to be long remembered….and with a shy and knowing look back from Torres they’d vanish into the silent world of awakening. Not a word spoken.

But this not that wondrous world.

This much is clear to me. It matters naught if Torres or Drogba start. It makes no difference. It doesn’t matter if Lampard starts or sits on the bench. Doesn’t matter if it’s Romeu or Mireles. Ramires or Essien. There is no attack from the wings to create space in the middle….the opponents can pack the box, load up the middle, and pretty much call it a day. Everything we already said before. All of the above.

It’s become a bad acid trip. Chelsea is lost in the swollen whirlpools and maelstroms of of their own minds and souls. They are like protagonists in a Norman Spinrad short story. They are utterly lost in a quagmire of forever with no direction home.

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