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Living more healthy just means dying more slowly. It is a rebellious act against something you are completely powerless about. You could see it as fighting for a pathetic cause, but the cause in being healthy is not implied. Some people love their children. But if you start this chain of reasoning, I propose and are proud of, the healthy yoga juice fanatic fears he will never get out of bed if he just gives an inch to self defeatist line of thinking.
And if humans were the only thing on this world on which the effect of death isn’t automatically the end of it?
But the human stays skeptic and says: “The future is dark. Who knows what will be then. To see only the end. The exit stays open”. There the world laughs again and answers “Be good, that it is how you say! That the ending is open and through the dark breaks light at the end of the tunnel – some evangelic paper in the city district I live in. Kind of laughable that a planet could answer.
Our real advantage against death, is that it loses even some of its finality, mainly thanks to story and laughter, when we forget about the running clock or just learn from listening. This is why story is important. Power is recognition. Recognition is intelligence.
I am a pretty difficult person.
A lot of artist are difficult people.
But just because I am difficult, doesn’t mean that I am an artist.
“You know what I like about cigarettes, Nathaniel? They are so nicely ironic. You drag on them and they disappear, wind to the fire and if you look closely on the paper, you can see how easy it is for the flame to consume the stick down to ash; even without your help. It reminds of ourselves”
“Smelly, but addicting?”, I grind.
“No, idiot, you and the cigarette are not so different. When you stay outside in the chilly wind and drag on the death sticks, the fire might as well consume you with it”
“I think you just want to sound sophisticated”
“We burn and then we turn to ash”
“We also turn to mush, similar to rotting ham. First darker, then yellow, green than black. Doesn’t make you colorful, just makes you dead”
She dragged on her cigarette and asked me, who had broken me. I didn’t answer. Nothing to say. I told her I would call her, when she left for the metro station. I wouldn’t. I knew that, except if I felt my libido. Our horniness. Lowest instincts. There is more truth in that than in most love songs.
Use all the words you want in this world. The least will stick, and more often than not, the meaning gets lost in translation anyway. But stories are what keep us going forward. It is, when the sucuidal realizes that there is no door, he would rather take, open, semi closed or not. When he decides to jump.
There was a farmer market going on in the inner city. I usually don’t witness this stuff, but in the afternoon the bar was crammed more than usual. This time I used to visit something that reminded more of an inner city tavern; the land folk having a strong traditional bond, their food being cooked by mothers over generations and their beer brewing tradition being held dear to their hearts since the days people regularly died of cholera.
I was drunk siting in the tavern that sold country grown vine and listened to a man talking about a cow. Yeah sometimes I get drawn by the food.
“She gave no milk anymore. I felt so bad. Berta was a great cow, not like the others…”
“Sorry to hear that, Jake”
“…never stubborn. Never mad. Like she could feel that I needed money from the milk to fed my own family. What a gorgeous animal…she tasted great.”
His wife nodded in agreement.
“I miss her. Things are not as easy and she was a good animal. Gave milk for longer than any other before her. With her sacrifice will pay off the month. To Berta”, and their glasses clinked.
I left the tavern after my meal. I ears dropped some, and after I had sipped the last drop of my digestif, I walked out the door and back to my apartment. After a while all people start to sound the same.
I went through the usual corners and shop hot spots. I lived in the district with the only weapon shop in the city. The sign on the facade was the word “Guns” mounted in the most unspectacular font, possible. Nothing more, just the word “Guns” like I was in a mock movie. Three shop further down was a pharmacy. Bandages and sterilisation materials were delivered on average twice a week. I had a lot of time one month and observed it. Maybe I should have used the time to try to get myself ahead in an opportunity in life, but the opportunity in life were rare these days for me, so I preferred hanging out drunk in the park instead of being drunk involved in fine dinning with a treasure dragon and his or her winged swarm…on a park bench there was generally less pressure to perform. In the end, what more can a man ask for than setting himself free from all burden of this mistrust earning clump of dirt’s gravitational pull? Buddha shit himself for enlightenment, and I wanted to fed doves the lunch, I bought to satisfy my drunk lust for fat. I had as much time 3 months ago, as I had now, I just felt less compelled by whatever they flying rats were teaching me. Maybe we all just bowing down for dropped bread….not really wise; didn’t sound quite thought through to the end, so I went ahead and walked down the street until I reached the liquor store. I bought a Sixpack. I sat down and watched the walking dead, walk through their day while the rats jumped on happily, whatever edible the passerby’s dropped.
This world might not really be able to surprise me anymore…I said sitting down, cracking up a head of a bottle of beer and slurping down, if there really was more truth to any of it, if I ever truly got to peel the layers back.
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John D.Dexter 