I don’t feel heavy, like the Argentinian sandwich in my gut, moulded into an adequate form by high-waisted Mom jeans.

And I don’t feel worn, like the old leather of a Scottish academic’s briefcase, laid over the sticky varnish of a crowded bar, listening as the growly old trad singer leans to blow his moothie.

And I don’t feel capable, like the high-school valedictorian who cannot fathom a world in which she could fail.

I feel like an old garden hose, kinked and trodden upon, spraying rainbows out of tiny leaks to delight the slugs in that overgrown back yard.

Such pretty little rainbows.