I have to stop pretending that I’m a writer (or at least a good enough one) and leave the house and go to work
I make myself get away from the keyboard and get my backpack and put my shoes on and that’s all I need
I get out and walk around the building and see him by the alley benches
I can smell him too
He’s soiled his pants again
It happens at least once a week and eventually his wife comes out and handles things somehow
But I know it’s not easy. I see it
It was easy some six or seven years ago before he had the accident
I don’t even know how to put it in medical terms. All I know is that the guy had some brain infection that ate away at his sanity
and it happened slowly and painfully
And it continues to happen
and the wife is regarded as this hero, this saint, the martyr of the neighborhood for not leaving his side even though she’s only in her early thirties
He makes eye contact with me as I pass him and starts nodding and a slim string of saliva dangles like a jellyfish tentacle as it hangs from his chin
I nod at him and acknowledge that he’s had better days on this Earth and I’m sure he’s thinking precisely the same about me
Then I look up at the gods and wonder that they’re thinking of our future because I honestly do not know
He'd fall asleep and the darkness that fell around him would manifest as one being that would hold him tight in her embrace and bite at random from his flesh and tear until there'd be nothing left but pure pain
Darkness was the world
And the world was dark because he had labeled it such
Darkness...
Enlightenment then comes when one is able to emerge from the darkness, to leave it behind, to win over it
Or so it is thought
But those who are truly enlightened know better, don't they?
You cannot possibly win a fight
It's just not how it works
Your decision to fight the darkness or anything else is your decision to fight yourself and yourself alone
Thus you lose even if you win
So then how do you truly win in life?
Well, have you ever thought about not fighting in the first place?
To fight with the world, be it the real world or the world of your dreams, is to fight with yourself
Stop hitting yourself in the face!
And maybe start embracing yourself?
Do so with the world
And what do you think?
Will you not find that the world replies with the exact same treatment?
I believe that's what he did in his dream world too The next time the world turned into pure darkness and came to eat him he just offered himself to it instead of trying to run away, hide and fight back
quite a few times she had to ask him why he was so shy
He thought it was just normal to be shy on a first date no matter how many other dates you've been on with other girls
He was afraid of getting too deep into relationships, mainly because girls didn't like guys who still lived with their parents
He lived with his father who worked as a butcher His clothes were always stained by blood and smelled of salt and iron but worst of all was that he was drunk more often than not
About thirty minutes into the date his phone rang and he excused himself to answer. It was his father
"Listen buddy. I kinda need your help."
"Dad, I kinda need you to understand that I can't save your ass every time you get in trouble thanks to your drinking. I'm busy right now."
"Oh? Too busy to help your old man?"
"Bye."
"No, no, no, wait! Listen. It's just a simple thing this time. You just have to tell the police that your father is a butcher and that the eyeball they found in his rectum belongs to a pig and not a human being, okay?"
"Dad, what the fuck?"
"Please!"
He hung up walked back to the table sat down smiled
"Problems?" his date asked.
"No, no. My father asked for a ride. I told him I can't right now. It's okay though. Nothing urgent or important."
"Father, huh? Must be nice having one."
"Oh, you don't…?"
She smiled. "Nevermind that. But anyway, speaking of fathers, you think you'll be a good one?"
"Huh?"
"Cuz I surely won't be the best mother. See, I just found out days ago that my ex-boyfriend got me pregnant. You think you'll be a good daddy?"
he owned one pair of shoes four pairs of socks one pair of pants a tank top two t-shirts and a sweatshirt
he’d lost the cap in his last dice game.
“well, hell, doesn’t matter, broke the spell,” he chanted, “therefore somehow, someway luck is gonna come my way and why not here, now, today?”
the dreams haven’t left the dreams were still in him, in his soul ready to explode
47 manuscripts: 14 novels, 7 novellas, and 26 short stories he carried in his pack along with his socks his other t-shirt a knife six pens he stole from the library where he wrote a candy bar and an old dull razor
he wasn’t so young anymore the beard and gray hairs made him look much older surely the hunger had affected that as well
but it didn’t matter he was going to make it one day, some day soon
Not too many horizons when you live in a small home with small windows and thick blinders and only face the smoky ceiling as you sit sprawled on the bed, bottle in hand, more empty than full, cigarette between fingers, more ashes than light. Work starts only the day after tomorrow so there is nothing to do now just like there won't be much to do then
He's not alone in this, this young man He thinks now of past lovers and it's like God delivers a gift all of a sudden
There's a knock on the door he stands dizzy about to vomit and finds his way to the door opens
Well. Hell. It's been... What, a year already? The woman holds a child in her arms and tells him it's his. The same whore who ran away with the little money he had about a year ago, just after they've done it and got wasted on the same bed he rose from.
Thank you, God It's, you know, just what the hell I needed.
Daydreaming as a profession 