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Yeah, there were those times
when he talked with
grandma about God
and she told him what a horrible place
hell is
"You suffer every day but can't die."
"Every day?"
"Every day. And can't die. Only
suffer!"
Grandma had four years of
schooling to her life
She didn't consider
the possibility of getting used to
the suffering
If it happens daily and you
don't die... well.
Hell therefore is not pain
It is monotony
Today he had 18 years of schooling
and 10 of working
a dead-end office job
He was accredited to define hell
Hell was monotony
Doing the same thing over
and over
and over again for the rest of
eternity
That was hell
And maybe grandma would've
agreed
maybe not
But there was one thing he remembered
about hell. Something he'd
heard from his mother back in the day
she'd quit chemotherapy to save the
money for his college
"The way out is
one smile away!" she'd said
Yeah. The way out.
He stood
left his cubicle
went into the bathroom
took out the razor blade from his pocket
and slashed from the corners
of his lips
all the way to the ears
deep
And again
There it was. An avalanche of feeling. So
much feeling!
He dipped his fingers into
the blood and
drew a smiling face on the
mirror
One smile away!
He shook with laughter and
adrenaline. There
was so much to feel! He laughed for
a full seven minutes.
And then returned to
his cubicle
and resumed work
The others were too deep in
hell to notice him
or the trail he left behind
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the woman smiled at him
and showed her
legs from beneath a
white coat
She was close to his face
Stretched on the label of
the rubbing alcohol bottle
70% alcohol
He liked this woman because her
smile never faded
and she was always inviting
"Oh, if you insist," he said
and made an
effort to push himself away from the
moldy pillow and stand
He grabbed the bottle
added some water
stirred
held his breath
and drank
The words "I love you," came from his mouth
enveloped in thick steam
and there was a brutal
growl in his guts
but none of that
mattered. The woman was still
smiling at him, still
lovely
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The way she'd creep up on you
and just appear
from behind like some cat,
you'd think she
was some trained assassin or something
I felt her punch
my shoulder and then her
other hand falling on
my nape and squeezing
"Hey, lucky boy. You should be so damn
glad you ran into me."
In the fist that hit my shoulder
she held a bunch of
crumpled bills
and brought them before my eyes
"What's that?" I said
"Our tickets to the bar
down the street. And you've the honor
to accompany me there. Drinks
are on me today. But you do
owe me, don't think otherwise, okay?"
"Where'd you get that money?" I asked.
"Why's it so dirty?"
"I stole 'em from Ol' Horn Nose
while he was taking a shit."
"What?"
Ol' Horn Nose was the homeless guy
who roamed around the block, usually begging
in front of the supermarkets
and pharmacies
She brought the fist to her nose
and smelled the bills
and then shrugged
"You can't be serious," I said. Of course
I didn't believe her
but just then
the old man rounds the corner
and spots us
and points his crooked finger at us
and screams
Immediately two cops
round the corner
and approach us with big strides
but by the time they get to us
there's only me
The assassin girl
was gone
I haven't seen her since
but she does
cross my mind every now and then
Especially when I pay with
cash at the bar
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his eyes looked fresh out of
a hardcore crying
session
I walked up to him
and asked what
was wrong
He showed me his phone and
what I saw were pictures of some
dismembered kitten,
head and legs and tail cut off
"The fuck?" I said
He shook his head. "My girlfriend. She
thought I gave my cat
almost as much attention as I
gave her. She couldn't
have that."
"Shit, man. I'm so sorry."
"My mother gave me that kitten
before she
left for Italy…"
"Gods… you… You reported your girlfriend,
right?"
Just then his phone rang
and he was quick to pick up. It was
an alarm. He looked at
the screen and took a few big steps away
from me. "Sorry bro, you took too
much of my time. I gotta get home now."
"Wait," I said, "Aren't we going for
some drinks?"
He ran away from me
as fast as he could. "Sorry, I can't give
you that much of my time. My
girlfriend's waiting for me. Bye."
Well, I went drinking
by myself. Unfortunately it did not
get the images out
of my head
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Here we go
open the beer can
bring it to the lips
have a sip
and...
There it is
that PSA starts running on TV
about a great part of the population
caring for nothing but how to get high
The numbers are alarming
Getting high has become
as much a science as it is an art
and a banal thing
Everyone seeks to escape reality
with desperation
therefore
the strongest drug of all
is suicide
so potent it can get you high
even if you just think about it
I had my share
but managed to change my mind early
I no longer think of suicide
but make others do it
and that still counts as getting high
since they're all characters in my writings
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He started writing at the
age of thirty-eight
and most of his early poems were
about starting late,
being a late bloomer
He said he'd spent those thirty-eight
years figuring out what not to be
and in the process of figuring
that out he did a lot of
living
changed countless jobs
and locations
and lovers
enemies
customs
religions
political views
philosophies
opinions
and now it was time to
document all that
with as little fiction added
as possible
he began
and went on
fueled by the saying
"Since I started so late
I owe it to myself
to keep going."
He kept going
And the young
fresh writers
the budding talents
the prodigies
shit-talked him for being a delirious
old fool who mistook
fiction for reality
And they rated and reviewed
his works and referred to them
as being dull garbage that
belonged into the trash can
"Oh, poor fool," they said. "He's just
trying to sell the world bald cats.
That's what he's trying to do. He strips
them of fur, of the beauty that makes
cats desirable, lovable. Behold,
his works are so raw, the
writing so simple, so
lazy and devoid of any description.
He tells the reader that there are
curtains before the window but fails to
show what color, shape, smell,
effectiveness of keeping the sunlight away
from a housewife's eyes while she
examines the cucumbers brought in
with the last trip to the grocery store.
Raw and dry
that's how he is
raw and dry
and that deems his works not
worthy of our attention.
Though we are a bit sorry for the old fool.
No matter what the voices in his head
told him
there is such a thing as being too
late to begin
and this is it. See? He's like an eighty
year old playing hockey with the pros,
athletes in their prime."
What those who haven't done
enough living fail to realize is that
in this world there is a market for
literally anything and everything.
And a market you can't find
is just a market that has but to be
started
and the customers will come.
There are lots of people who love
bald cats and even prefer them
over the furry ones.
No market has ever died because
of the customer
only because of the merchant.
As long as you're that merchant who
doesn't give up you'll sell your
stuff eventually
Daydreaming as a profession 