I’m not out here to tell the truth, that’s
for sure; I could care less for truth and
its implications, since truth, like an
arrogant coward, never travels alone. I
tell you, you leave it in a dark,
moderately cold place, and you’ll never
be bothered again. Other than that,
you asked for it, go complain to
someone else. Hit the road back.
I am out here to catch a breath of
fresh air, have a glass of bourbon and
a cigar.(read milk and a stub of weed)
That is for picture sake, though – I
actually prefer Gitanes sans filter – but
I can live with bourbon; I don’t drink
enough to die with bourbon.
It’s nice
out here, with truth buried deeply in
the front yard of my cortex, and since I
have diminishing eyesight capabilities, I
don’t even need to see details of the
night spread around me. On top of
that, I don’t need to cry, or laugh, I just
came out for a … whatever it was, in
the still of the night.
What about YOUR eyesight: can you
see me out there, that baby penguin
slipping and sliding while trying to keep
up with the rookery of wise penguins,
her pen and paper wet and useless;
can you spot a sucker when you see
one? The freaking penguin in question
is fifty seven years old, believe or not,
and the only fact I have to add to her
defense is that she is still slipping and
sliding; since, as we know it, getting up
is much harder than falling down (an
excellent movie, by the way).
To quote from Twain, when I was
younger, I could remember anything,
whether it had happened or not.
Myself, I vividly remember things that
were never to be. As if they are not
only more present and easier to touch
and taste, but as if they are the only
past experience of mine. Scary. And I
just came out for a cigarette. If I had
planned to have dinner here, it
would’ve ended up with suicide, or
something of that nature, for dessert.
At least I asked for it, I wasn’t minding
my own business… or the problem is
that I was. It’s hard with problems, you
never know
ahead where they lie; they aren’t the
tigers of India, so you watch carefully
approaching that waterhole.
Tigers of India – I could laugh in their
face, that’s how afraid I am. But I stop
laughing every time I look in the mirror
(unless it’s The Mirror of the Sea, by
Conrad). And the funny thing is that
I’m not afraid of looking in that freaking
mirror; I could care less and then
some. No. For some reason, I just stop
laughing, simple as it sounds. But then
again, why was I laughing before
glancing at that mirror – maybe it’s
where the real question lies, forget the
tigers.
A friend of mine once said:’If you are
out to describe the truth, leave
elegance to the tailor. ’ His name is, I
think I can remember it, Albert Einstein.
And he knew a thing or two about
elegance.
courtesy of Storyzetu
