One.
The two of them, unlikeliest of pairs, came together. One soft and pink and fresh and new, innocent, laughing, talkative like; the other dark and viscous, full of treacle and self importance and youthful arrogance, exotic, shallow, moody. A bizarre couple, an asymmetrical match. But a series of coincidences had them meet, had them spend time together, had them fall into a sort of giddy affair, twisted the iron bars of common sense and reason, sculpted those iron bars, twisted them out of shape, created the union. It was a strange union, and everybody thought it, everybody knew it, even the pair. The iron wrought and strained, forever groaned under the tension of the twisted union. But there they were the unlikeliest of pairs.
In a small town, in a small home, in a small street the pair became a family, no a factory. The iron wrought and strained and groaning became a slightly wonky factory that churned out slightly wonky products. And we were the products. Slightly wonky products from the slightly wonky factory, the unlikeliest of pairs, the twisted union.
At first you couldn’t see how twisted and irregular the four products were. After all, inside the factory everything was wonky, so there were no even lines or smooth-swinging hinges or perfect square edges with which to compare.
But four wonky products we were, and so wonkily we entered the world. Not quite straight or steady or sure. Looking sort of ok, if you blurred your eyes, but on closer inspection – uneven stitching, missing screws, hems to high or too low, thoughts too dark or too dim. There we were, the wonky products, walking with uneven gaits, thinking with uneven thoughts, trying to balance on the walkways of the world. Behind us we left signs, fallen bolts, threads, screws, signs that things weren’t quite right, that things could, if circumstances allowed, come disastrously undone. But the factory loved us, wonky as we were.
The foundations of the factory, that unlikeliest of pairs, continued to groan and strain and warp even more as time passed by, and soon their products entered the world, their job was done. The factory emptied. But an empty factory out of work begins to disintegrate. Damp decays, rust corrodes, dust rots. The iron wrought and fraught and twisted and groaning, decayed, corroded and rotted, and finally it fell apart.
The factory was gone. Six wonks remained: The two decayed, directionless foundations, one anxious wonk, a masochist, an angry wonk, a childlike thing. All struggling and warped and twisted and trying to fit into the world which surrounded them, suffocated them.
But the whole world is wonky. And these wonks at least were loved. The world is filled with lost and lonely, hurting, hurtful, angry, lazy, wasteful, stupid, ignorant, selfish, ugly, sinful, struggling, hoping, hating, harming beautiful creatures with all sorts of gaits and all sorts of wonks. The trick is, if you can’t smooth it out, and you probably can’t, to learn to live with your own particular wonkiness. Hate it if you will, because you sometimes you will, but learn to live with it, because you’ll be wonky until the day you fucking die.
The two of them, unlikeliest of pairs, came together. One soft and pink and fresh and new, innocent, laughing, talkative like; the other dark and viscous, full of treacle and self importance and youthful arrogance, exotic, shallow, moody. A bizarre couple, an asymmetrical match. But a series of coincidences had them meet, had them spend time together, had them fall into a sort of giddy affair, twisted the iron bars of common sense and reason, sculpted those iron bars, twisted them out of shape, created the union. It was a strange union, and everybody thought it, everybody knew it, even the pair. The iron wrought and strained, forever groaned under the tension of the twisted union. But there they were the unlikeliest of pairs.
In a small town, in a small home, in a small street the pair became a family, no a factory. The iron wrought and strained and groaning became a slightly wonky factory that churned out slightly wonky products. And we were the products. Slightly wonky products from the slightly wonky factory, the unlikeliest of pairs, the twisted union.
At first you couldn’t see how twisted and irregular the four products were. After all, inside the factory everything was wonky, so there were no even lines or smooth-swinging hinges or perfect square edges with which to compare.
But four wonky products we were, and so wonkily we entered the world. Not quite straight or steady or sure. Looking sort of ok, if you blurred your eyes, but on closer inspection – uneven stitching, missing screws, hems to high or too low, thoughts too dark or too dim. There we were, the wonky products, walking with uneven gaits, thinking with uneven thoughts, trying to balance on the walkways of the world. Behind us we left signs, fallen bolts, threads, screws, signs that things weren’t quite right, that things could, if circumstances allowed, come disastrously undone. But the factory loved us, wonky as we were.
The foundations of the factory, that unlikeliest of pairs, continued to groan and strain and warp even more as time passed by, and soon their products entered the world, their job was done. The factory emptied. But an empty factory out of work begins to disintegrate. Damp decays, rust corrodes, dust rots. The iron wrought and fraught and twisted and groaning, decayed, corroded and rotted, and finally it fell apart.
The factory was gone. Six wonks remained: The two decayed, directionless foundations, one anxious wonk, a masochist, an angry wonk, a childlike thing. All struggling and warped and twisted and trying to fit into the world which surrounded them, suffocated them.
But the whole world is wonky. And these wonks at least were loved. The world is filled with lost and lonely, hurting, hurtful, angry, lazy, wasteful, stupid, ignorant, selfish, ugly, sinful, struggling, hoping, hating, harming beautiful creatures with all sorts of gaits and all sorts of wonks. The trick is, if you can’t smooth it out, and you probably can’t, to learn to live with your own particular wonkiness. Hate it if you will, because you sometimes you will, but learn to live with it, because you’ll be wonky until the day you fucking die.
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