Jamie Coldest Mullen

“It’s not about winning….

The first thing that hits you is the SHOCK. Your lungs fill up slowly with the now muggy air, in stages and laboured, like filling a tyre with a faulty foot pump. Next to come is SENTIENCE. Your pupils flash wider like two cracked eggs in a mid-morning pan as the hairs on your neck become militant, standing to attention awaiting the permission to “At-ease”. My breathing became shallow and rhythmically weak. The tadpoles of sweat now spawning on my neck and head are esoterically dancing and darting between my newly awakened regiments on a journey to nowhere. As I mop my brow with my sleeve I realise my hands are empty. This would account for the thud I heard earlier, although, the thought is fleeting, as now my attention is firmly on the crowd. I narrow my eyes just a touch, trying to see through the blinding veil of fake smiles and nods of acceptance. These newly attired masks hide mainly resentment and some utter confusion; although some of the women’s eyes betray a serpent like sense of opportunity, as if a new mouse has befallen their cage. I kneel down and pick up my things off the floor. With my breathing returning to normal I take a quick inhale in preparation to pierce the sweetly sickening smell of sweat and perfume that surrounds me. As my prize is prepared, the cacophony of clicks reminds me of an avalanche of bones. The Vultures around me (now all aware of my existence and carnivorously eyeballing my reward) truly framing this graveyard of dreams. I clutch my prize tightly; as a new-born would with its first available finger and I head towards the cage. As the dull comedown of daily mindfulness begins to return I let out a small chuckle. The first real display of joy since this 4 minute ordeal began. Yet it wasn’t for my prize, nor for the excitement of what would be now to come. It was those now infamous words: “It’s about how you got here”…