I'll take a shower now.
I'll take a shower now.
I am not a writer. I have no idea what a real writer does. Where would one write drafts? Does a real writer write drafts? Or maybe one just writes as it goes...
I have no clue.
I might be an amateur writer, one that pours the occasional thought on paper; a journal entry today, an attempt at a short story tomorrow. But that's as far as it goes.
A few days ago, I saw some pictures of famous authors. Some were authors I like, some others were authors liked by friends of mine. In any case, they all shared this intellectual look. Disheveled hair, smart look on their eyes, a half consumed cigarette between their lips... What let me thinking: I am not a heavy smoker either. You could even put me together with the non-smoker group. The truth is that I'm no more than your average Joe. I listen to music, just as any other bloke, I dress casually --so casually that I am usually camouflaged with the rest of the average Joes out there-- and the look on my face is almost as absent as that of any other person you might find in a lift.
A random woman approached me today while I has having a smoke --the first one in months. She asked, without waiting for me to take my earphones off, if I had a cig for her. After taking freeing one ear I asked her to repeat her question, to which she repeated, do you have a cigarette you could share? So I reached for my cigs, took one out, lit it for her and engaged into a meaningless 2 minutes conversation, after which I wondered if she really wanted a cigarette or just wanted to talk to someone.
Unimportant. I put my cigarette off, tossed the thought aside, and stepped into the train waiting for me to take me to my office. I put my music back on and a thought stroke my mind...
I am not a writer
By the end of the day I'm so tired of all this shit that I just lie down on bed, cover myself all the way up to the ears and wish I won't wake up, ever again.
But why am I saying all this? And, most of all... Why should I complain?
If life can get as good as this, then it might as well get better. And it's worth fighting for it.
End of today's entry. Now go have fun ;)
We call them The Builders, he said.
In the evening on that same day, I was invited to a small dinner party they were having out on some field. When the weather is nice like today, we like having dinner outside, he told me as I helped him carry some food and other stuff to an open field nearby the town centre. Sometimes we invite some of The Builders to join us. They love it when we start playing music and dancing, he said as he laid the things on the grass and saw the surprised expression on my face at the sight of four Builders coming towards us.
It was a great party, I must say. We had a simple -but delicious- meal and then some local band started playing and everyone started dancing. When everything finished, I went back to the room they had very nicely prepared for me, and wrote a few good memories on my travel journal. I hope I can come back sometime soon and have another dinner and see more about the life here. Maybe I can even get to talk to one of The Builders, you never know.
Little did I know, it wasn't only going to be difficult, it was going to be painful as well, and it would test my patience. This situation has been taking the best of me in a time where I'm not at my best. I feel the unjustice of it all and the burden is too big to bear. My heart pounds with fury whenever I think I'm being treated like I am. My brows are permanently knitted and my face is that of a person in pain. And I ask myself why. I should be happy that she loves me, shouldn't I?
Then there are times, when I can't avoid snapping. I snap at anybody, I swear and I call names to people I don't even know, just because they happen to walk at a slower pace than I do. I snap at her too. I know I shouldn't, I know how I am when I'm upset. This is not what I want. The worst part is when I try to explain to her why is it that I'm snappy, or that I'm in pain. I cannot understand how does she do it, or why. But somehow, she ends up being mad at me, and, all of a sudden, I'm the bad guy.
Am I the bad guy?
I've been wondering why is it that, now that I'm complete --somehow anyway--, I feel as I feel.
Why am I getting even more immersed in my books than before?
I know what it is.
She is part of my life now. I've made it so. I like it that way. But I'm not part of hers. Not completely anyway. And it feels...
so as to be able to
merely live in the no
potato few world alone
It is kind of fun, actually. If you ask the rain, she would tell you it's not a just a job that came with a how-to-wetten manual. No. It is also a hobby and, in some deeper way, a return home. Wettening, she would tell you, is her life.
Today, however, there is something different. Something disturbing. Like when you can see something with the corner of the eye, but it's not there anymore when you turn around to focus on it. Just like that, there is some... thing, eluding rain. Eluding the wettening.
He takes his cup of coffee and takes a sip. It's been a relative short time since he started drinking it again. To him, it is not an addiction, not like it is for most people. To him, it's memories. Whispers in his mouth, traveling all the way from his tongue to his mind. Edible pictures of long walks by the lake, cosy movie evenings, long emails during working hours...
Somehow, the nostalgia remains. He sips again from his lukewarm (and therefore bitter) coffee, and thinks that yes, he would live everything again... And more
-It's told that people sigh when they miss someone-
For a minute, I get distracted and look outside through the window glass. I look at all the green --so much green!!-- outside. And the truth is: I LIKE the springtime.
I like the springtime, with its flowers and leaves, with the not-too-hot-but-not-too-cold weather; sunny, yet fresh... I like it, all of it.
Yes, I know, I know I complain incessantly about the evil pollen of doomy doom. But don't let that fool you, springtime is mytime.
Heh, I turn back from the outside scenery and see two people sitting a bit further down the wagon. He's quite an ordinary guy with a not-as-ordinary outfit that makes him look very gay. She's an ordinary girl with a broad smile and light brown hair. They sit opposite to each other. Not on the same aisle though. He has his own aisle, which is empty apart from him, and she has her own aisle, which she shares with another man who is clearly not with her. They are talking. Gay-looking-guy and ordinary girl. They talk from aisle to aisle. And I wonder: "why don't they sit together?"
Some time passes by, the not-so-ordinary people there are still talking, the train makes a stop, someone opens the doors from outside and the same someone steps into the train. Another ordinary guy. This one has brown, curly hair and his outfit says plainly "I'm German". He has a heart painted with black ink on his forehead...
I love your almond eyes.
The thing is, you see, I can't give give give...
Sometimes it takes a little bit of extra energy to keep on going.
I have not found out yet...
-- They close their eyes and turn to face the light and enjoy the warmth --
In our innermost selves, we still admire our big star; we still praise the moment it bathes us with its brightness; and, to some of us, it becomes as clear as water, why our ancestors believed it to be a god of sorts and adored it.
To me, the sunshine brings a smile upon my face; to me the sunshine brings memories...
Memories of Sunshine.
the streets fill with sunflowers,
and they gaze.
And while they watch, they learn...
They learn from what they see.
On cables, houses, posts...
In rows they stand on their little claws.
And they observe.
Someday they will act,
I took my glasses off and put them away.
I don't know, maybe, like a little kid, I'm trying to hide from the rest of the world so they can't see me.
"you've got to be the little man. they can't see you coming", he said... Maybe he was right.
Hah, fact is, they were getting heavy...
Look, look! That guy!
What? Woah! He's climbing to the top! o.O
Yeah! Crazy guy, there's nothing there.
Hey! You! Crazy guy!
Yeh, you! Why are you climbing to the top? There's nothing there, you know...
What do you mean?
Well, there aren't any apples there.
I don't want no apple
Then, why climb?
UP *points to the sky
Huh? What's there?
-- Hallo, could I have a... Blues of the heart please?
- Of course, to take? Or to eat here?
-- To take, thanks.
...And so, the poet's soul paid and then went to eat its blues. Alone, in the rain.
There are so many memories in my head. So many pictures of what now seems to be only a dream. There they are, walking by the lake, watching a movie, watching the stars at night, talking in a bar. Time, however, flies, and everything comes to an end.
*And from memories, the ashes of the past, something new shall come to be.
Images would come now and again; memories of the past, distorted pictures of events that may or may not have happened how he remembers. And his heart would shrink, and grow again; his hands metamorphosing every ounce of feeling into sound. Then wishes. Hopes. Pictures of possible futures, of possible outcomes; fantasies would strike and make him hold on to crazy desires. Daydreams based on deluded memories and coincidences.
But what, if not fantasies and delusions, is the fuel that makes the poet's soul work?
The fall always hurts.
Follow the link!!!
I may put that in practice... hmmm
The dark god.
...And everything returns to darkness. It's thickness feels so familiar.
This is me, this black soup of nothingness.
are little cotton balls that fall from the sky...
I hugged you.
That night I dared.
I said it already, and I'll say it again.
I love you.
They never returned to that coffee shop...
Coffee without biscuits just doesn't do the trick...
Buses were such an inconvenience. On one hand, he was very fond of public transportation and the many advantages it brought. Nevertheless, he also found it to be limiting, and at times even suffocating. The whole idea of being bound to a fixed schedule in order not to miss the bus or the train and, what's more, the time lost if such thing were to happen, just drew him nuts. That's why he had a bike. He would ride it everywhere. It was his freedom. It was his 2¢. It was his way of contributing to the world's welfare and it was how he proclaimed his sovereignty.
During Winter, however, he did not ride his bike to work and, thus, he had to depend on the bus.
"How annoying", he thought as he walked to the bus stop. Then again, he was almost there now, and the fresh air had done its job, freeing his mind of all thoughts concerning work.
The bus stop was still empty. He got there, it seemed, a bit too early. But "what the heck?", he thought, the weather was alright and he would use the extra five minutes to breathe this wonderful fresh air. He took a mouthful of air, breathing it slowly, enjoying its smell and feeling how it filled every inch of his body. Then he turned up to the sky and there they were. As if waiting for him to look at them, a bunch of stars and a big white moon, all looking at back at him. "What a view", he thought and stayed standing, his head facing upwards, admiring the scenery and talking to the lights in the sky.
Soon, people would come, the bus would arrive, they would all step in, and this would be over...
The article is in German, but the main "news" is that in some places in Europe (Spain, Italy, UK), some atheist groups are expressing their ideas in the forms of posters and such which you can read inside public transportation vehicles and on the streets...
Now was the time for that, he decided.
He opened his eyes, and closed them again. Then he opened them once more, all this time just drinking the absence of light, feeling it. He moved his hands, his arms, his legs. Then he turned in the four basic directions, each one of them showing him the same view. After a while, he could feel the black thickness surrounding him, as if being submerged in an endless cup of a very very black coffee.
He drank it... He drank it all...
Until it filled him to the bones, and further, to the marrow... to his soul. Time, space, dreams, reality; everything fused into one and the same, and he surrendered himself to it.
That night, he didn't dream.
Me... I'm a man... With cold feet.
--There he is again--, said Susann, --the strange guy I told you about--, and turned around to face Catherine.
They both went a long way back; they first met at junior high. By the time they started high school, Susann moved the city, because her dad got another position at the company he worked for, and now both girls were studying finance at the same university.
--Ahhhh, where, where?, was asking Catherine while turning right and left, looking for something suspicious.
--There, he's about to get in the bus. The one with the beige jacket--, and, making a humming sound of disapproval, she remarked how he always ignored the line, as if the other people didn't exist.
Susann found an internship about two months ago and was, since, working part time along with her studies. This was the bus she always took to work, and it was Catherine's first day as intern in the same company --by Susann's recommendation.
--He's so strange... Just the other day, I was already in the bus, and then he came in and almost sat on a taken seat! The guy sitting there asked what was wrong with him and all, but all he got was a strange look, as if strange-guy didn't understand what was happening... He's a little coocoo, I tell you.
The bus kept moving, its occupants, most of them, dozing off or just looking to a blank point in the horizon. He turned his music player on, carefully extended the earphones' cable and, after separating "R" from "L", introduced first the right one in his right ear, then the other one in the other ear. Some rock song was on, and he, suddenly remembering there was no one else there, started singing aloud.
In the bus, nobody paid special attention to strange-guy. It was always tricky at the time of stepping into the vehicle, but afterwards it was almost as normal as anything else, except for one thing...
--Oh, look, look... He's getting his things now-- said Susann, who as hard as she thought about it, just couldn't get into her head what was about to happen.
--What, seriously? Now? But we're still moving, and he didn't even pressed the stop button or anything!
The empty bus stopped. He walked alongside the seats towards the front door, threw a last look at the empty driver seat, and stepped out with a look on his face that clearly said "what the..." and "ooh, whatever" at the same time.
Many people... Most people would have reacted alarmingly in a situation like this. The 7.20-bus-people, however, were already used to seeing strange-guy step out of the bus while moving and without opening the doors. They just ignored it now. Or at least tried to, and continued with their lives as if nothing had ever happened. Not that it would be a great shock anyway, since hard as they tried, they were never able to actually be aware of what was taking place. In fact, whoever tried, was left with an uncomfortable feeling afterwards, just like the feeling you get when you dream of something and you know you remember it and you know you remember all the details, but somehow you don't remember a single thing about it other than that it existed.
...Inside an enormous skyscraper, a man who came from an empty bus is ready to go to work. He steps into a lift and presses a minuscule blue button. The display in the lift lights up and reads: "Middle Orion".
Lying on the sofa, he stares at the ceiling. The lights are off and there isn't much he can actually see in there, just the white blurry form of a round paper lamp and some shadows cast from things outside the living room. He thinks about standing up and turning the light on, perhaps reading a little, but the vacuum in his chest doesn't let him move. He breathes once, and again, and the void extends to his stomach.
The ceiling has stopped moving, the lamp glows gloomily, barely enough to make it's contour visible, and outside there is no wind. Everything stays still, waiting...
He turns to his right, reaches for his lighter on the table and, after opening his stomach with his left hand, introduces it slowly, carefully in his body. Once inside, he lights it up. The fire catches up and grows steadily inside him. After a while, the flame is big enough to reach his chest. The fire-tongue warms patiently, moving slowly, kissing his heart until it starts melting.
A magma-like liquid fills the void there used to be in his body, in his being. And he is alive.