“Do you hate people?
I don’t hate them… I just feel better when they’re not around.”
― Charles Bukowski
I think about people as much as I think about leaves. A throng that clings to the tree of life, haphazardly rustling to the tune of the whistling wind that ebb and flow along the bottomless blue sky.
I hear the leaves sing. But to listen to them is another matter.
Sometimes their song sings a nectar of harmony. A symphony of depth and sincerity that hangs perpetually at the palate of the mouth. A feeling of nostalgic burning etched along the erratic creases on the tongue that sears the memory and sets the soul ablaze. It fills the mouth with the taste and scent of rosewater. As if life is worth living.
But sometimes it whispers an aria of sorrow.
A collective shrill of dissonance that skewers the laughing heart. Its tone evokes the feeling of ineffable longing for someone, or something of some distant mental imprint. An insatiable yearning for purpose and place.
We are at the end of history. Our war is a spiritual war, our depression is our lives.
I usually lose myself inside my head. It’s not the “ape shit mad” kind of mad where someone thrashes around, while another slurs ‘My Way’ on a vomit layered microphone, after that someone discovers that his ka-table, who’s been downing beer bottles faster than a snatcher running pass in front of the beer house with a recently swallowed piece of bloodied earring, has a dick.
No, it’s the kind of mad that takes the route of the movie Inception. A leap into imagination away from the plane of reality but with the promise of return.
In this state I often ponder about myself. The “I”. The absolute necessity. Ich. The oldest story in the world.
What are the possibilities when two or more people I’ve met and who are likely to never meet within each of our lifetime, by sleigh of fate’s hand, meet?
The horny introvert crosses paths with the happy-go-lucky moral compass inside a back alley shop that caters to the most lascivious fetishes imaginable.
The abandoned prostitute finds a picture of its long lost mother inside a customer’s wallet.
Or when the teacher catches someone using his phone in class and directs another student to read it in front of the same whole class,
“Son, why aren’t you answering the phone? Your father didn’t make the operation.