"why is your face so goddamn dirty", yelled the belligerent man to the one legged woman lying on the street. he picked up her worn out walking stick. he looked carefully at it.
"one more hit and I can own you", he chuckled.
she looked so sad in that moment. her hair disheveled, her clothes in tatters. the princess of dejection.
i wish i could help, i thought to myself. but, I'm too busy taking a sad photo to do anything meaningful about it.
he wondered, why do the same thing tomorrow as I've done for the last five years? all the books read, the time in school, the confusion of adulthood. nothing amounted to anything. maybe it was his recent affinity for Murakami?
it was as if, adding salt to his plate didn't change the taste in any reasonable way. dull. tasteless. limp and, and, what's another word for dull?
he watched the BBC nightly report on public television. a reporter introduced the special guest; a National Geographic photographer who specializes in war-torn countries. look at this man's life, he thought. pictures of dark refugees, deep in agony flashed on the screen. a small child sewing her ragged clothes. the man could barely keep his composure.
this, this is what I wanted my life to be, he shouted. someone who makes a goddamn difference he screamed. but, after the cathartic eruption, he lay silent. he thought about tomorrow. the credit card debt, the school debt, the telephone bill, the IRS, his recent trip to Colorado for a best friends wedding. his stupid, inconsiderate, but fairly large breasted girlfriend. goddamn, I'm a chauvinist he muttered to himself, sickened at the thought of his refusal to call it off, because sex was all that remained. and frankly, he didn't even enjoy it all that much anymore.
a moment later, a steady, but thin noise engulfed his left ear. it made it's way up into his mind like a thin, translucent sheet, drawn out, and slowly falling into place. the noise grew. drowning in the sea of noise. alone, in the sea of noise.
the nightmares kept coming. night after night. soon, I started to wonder if I was in a perpetual dream state. the faces all had an eerie smile, that propped up on the left side, like a puppet string was holding them up or something. that's not a natural smile, no, people don't smile like that.
even at Target, the same looks on faces. why was I in Target anyway? that's not a place I would ever go. i don't have kids, so I don't need to pick up diapers or Oreo cookies, and I certainly don't need a new lamp, or CD's, or whatever else the fuck they sell there. maybe I've been too judgmental about Target? see, I'm in a nightmare again. night after night.
it's 5:37am. why did my snooze button land on an odd number? am i being tricked?
it's a bit dark outside, as I pull the curtain to see if other life forms exist at 5:38am. a man get's into his old, red BMW across the street.
man, he must have gotten a lot of pussy a decade or so ago, i quip.
but then, maybe he's married and has three kids? what the fuck do I know anyway(s).
it's 5:39am.
a punch to the gut
hands up
a punch to the chin
hands down
lying lifeless, seconds pass
the effects of your leaving hadn't taken it's hold yet.
sure, the upset still lingered. oh, and anger.
a few lonely nights here and there caressing a bottle.
but, nothing catastrophic, and certainly nothing a man with a five inch beard and a criminal past couldn't entertain.
a few months past though, then the trouble started.
and, the TROUBLE left me gutted.
my darkest black friend the crow. you see me. you call to me. you alert your friends of my presence. your murder is tough. but, we don't really understand one another. even if I sport your feather on my hat.
the man's dog had passed over the early morning hours. it laid stiff as a surfboard in the small suburban backyard. a line of eager ants marched forward and around the lifeless fur ball. these ants, ever present in the final days.
how the man hated these ants. and hated the world for teasing him with life and death. the man stared at the dead body with a sunken, desperate anxiety. he looked up into the sky. he ran his hand through his hair, with a heavy, bothered motion. the hand weighed at least a ton.
defeated, the man went inside and sat on the dark green couch, the dog's favorite nap space. not a single thought passed through the man's head for another three hours. as he sat motionless, the sun slowly spread its energy across the living room, lighting the darkest room in the world, uninvited.
your esteem was a transient condition, always on edge. frailty, whims and indecision. shakeable, always. this can never serve you though, young girl.
your esteem is a transient condition. the death of you in future years. the death of you in the past, and in present, a fragment, held together by cheap duct tape, and maybe a shoe lace or two. maybe an instagram photo or two. careful young girl.
your esteem wants to own you indefinite. it has it's dark, skinny, vein ridden, twiggy hands all over your straight, sandy blond hair. it wants to devour your oxygen. pay to play, but it need not beg.
it persuades. it lulls. it has more of, everything you want. i wish i could help you. but, unfortunately, i have my own enemies. the demons sometimes dance in the dark, but if you look closely enough, they bask in the sun.
arthouse. (circa 05)