quandary

now there's an interesting word

.

can you be out of a quandary?

or sitting next to a quandary, on a bench? can a quandary jump up from behind and scare the living daylights out of you? can a quandary swim lazily alongside you as you splash in a Cambridge water meadow on a hot summer day? does a quandary ever send you a gift, for no particular reason. . . have interesting conversations with you. . . make you feel ever so slightly happier because it's in your life. . . bring a smallish smile to your face. . . make you cringe with awkwardness. . .

what does a quandary feel like? is it gritty, oily, silky, do little shards of it break off into your skin as you touch it and make you bleed

does it have a smell? citrus, with a hint of vanilla that doesn't quite go, and perhaps a bluff charcoal note

it is very quiet, this quandary - it makes no sounds whatsoever: in fact, on the noise front, a quandary is the audible equivalent of a black hole, sucking in murmurings and cracklings and whistlings and hummings and buzzing from all around - at such a force that in their ambient backgroundness these rustlings almost become overwhelming; but the quandary itself is silence

what does it taste like? bittersweet, I can bet - really sharp and acidic, it makes you gasp for breath and yet at the same time you want more of its sickly sugaryness; strangely there is a crystal of salt in there too, melting on your tongue

it is deepest aubergine in colour, part matt part shiny
.

. . .or can you only ever be in a quandary?

because that is where I find myself, dear reader

yes, you (you!) (not you at the back, lurking (I know you're there, but I've given up worrying about your presence) ("silence is golden" and all that) (apart from the singing, of course) (you are off key) (way off)

.

*sigh*

.

(about the quandary, not the lurking hordes)
.

what do I do. . .
what do I do. . .
I don't know

so I'm going to do nothing (if in doubt, do nowt); and then, when I get bored of that, I'll have another think about it