Minions! I hate pickles. there is something very melancholic in the way pickles are made, pushed into tight spaces, submerged in salt and vinegar and acid, having the water dry out of you and replaced by the pungent vichyssoise of burning chemicals..... no wonder they emerge in colours close to those of imagined zombies! There is something very eerie about the slow character of the process of making pickles, time has a frightening effect on things kept tight, though it seems an oxymoron, the slow passing of time is the most powerful accelerator to the festering of things under our skin. For some reason, the expression "put a lid on it" reminds me of pickle jars; I used to talk a lot, I used to express and connect and share, granted not all but the important things.... now I just put a lid on it. It's easy to turn the green clear of a cucumber into a dead swamp of a pickle, you just need to add feelings that burn and put a lid on it. To turn the healthy pink of my heart to a muddy swamp of fear, add salty constrictions and put a lid on it. It used to be easy to wade through the lakes of my mind, now I get stuck in the stifling stale air... and I still put a lid on it. Minions, open me up before I shrivel into a zombie coloured lidded jar.
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