© by F. E. RO 2019
stories: Campari
You
tell me you don’t like to run under the sun. I tell you I don’t like to run at
all, no matter the climate. I wouldn’t want to increase the effect the sun
already has on me, and are you crazy, under the SUN? People do that? What
kind of people?
You
don’t smile, you don’t even smirk, and I’m thankful for your lack of humour -
this evening is not about polite jokes and polite laughters, it’s how we work -
we spill our beans and our pains and continue onward. That’s how we don’t need
each other, just someone,- and it’s our dirty escape - we are selfish and we
are troubled and maybe we deserve to die, maybe we deserve to live, for the
moment I can’t really make up which is the worst. My thoughts are older than I
am or anyone I know, they are older than the clock.
I once
met a lady fox on the beach, chasing the moonlight off of
her feet.
”I once tried
running, to escape time and to escape hunger, trying to make existance a bit
less
real.”
I tell you, with envy, ‘cause you make it seem so doable finding yourself i’m
starting to think you will find me too
straight
out of charity;
”but sometimes,” I say, ”sometimes I
can feel
the end of the world,
in every breath, every spoken word, making it so uncomfortable to be here, drinking this campari.
And most of the time I am thankful for nothing. Not even time doing it’s job just fine, so I can visit other kinds of here’s and now’s...”
Before
I continue I raise my glass to say ”for love is a terrible and confusing
science we do not master”, and we are clychés, and most people are crocodiles
or jokers or liars, I think, but maybe tonight it doesn’t apply to our
melancolic bones, If we suffer enough we can not be monsters, and I’m so drunk
I almost believe myself as I’m turning around to make a stupid toast and you’re
asleep in your chair, and i’m left here with the sound...
The
sound of you sleeping.
It
makes me afraid of dying.
I
mean death
I
mean you dying, and leaving me with what’s left; utter silence, approaching
sun, dishes in my zink.
The
way I am constructed would never make me drink to forget.
So
I sit. Watch the nightsky tangle itself into the heaven lakes - less drastic
than how the blue velvet curtain would fall down on stage, finishing off all
the fucking drama- but the same principle.
And
I try to feel something today. But new thoughts won’t come and old won’t go
away. So I continue to sit.
I drink my drink and you’re sleeping and maybe I’m sleeping too. The streets below us are swept clean by the dark and I’m finally out of Campari. Later I will force myself to a walk among the trash and dogs and streetlights that just don’t care, in fact they swear they’ve seen me before, but they could never be sure,
- people look so alike to streetlamps. We
are all shadows to streetlamps.
And
maybe tonight I will find another human to bury myself into and maybe I’ll die
after I do.
Love is a terrible and confusing science I cannot solve watching street cats and dogs fighting, I cannot hear from the sound of your silence.
...But
tonight I won’t stay and find out about it.
-
I’m a clysché
I'm a crocodile, a joker, a liar