I don’t hate anyone. I pity some, and I know many who I’d rather not be around. There are a few I can stand, there are even fewer I am fond of. The people I love I can count on one hand, those that are still alive, at least. To count what people call true love, I only need a single finger. Unfortunately that finger is slowly becoming dysfunctional, due to dis- or misuse (take your pick).
After having lived and written in the room in your head for some time now, I thought you might want to know how it looks in there. I am sure you’ve never bothered to look yourself.
Surprisingly, the room is furnished. It is not as bare as I had thought. There’s even a bed. I am very thankful that I don’t have to lie down on the hard floor, or, if it is too drafty (which it is), on the desk. The bed, who would have thought it, even has sheets, and a blanket. Luxury, pure luxury.
The room is held in complementary tones of… I’ll let you decide which color. It ain’t pink or lavender though.
There’s a wicker chair in the corner opposite to the desk, a chair I never sit on. It’s not like it isn’t comfortable, but for some reason I just don’t sit there. I toss my clothes on it when I go to bed.
There’s even a little balcony where I can take a breath of fresh air and watch the neurons glow. That’s where I go when I am sick of writing, to drink a drop and smoke. I don’t smoke in the room, because I hate the stale smell of it the next day.
I am sorry to say there is no bathroom. This requires me to piss off the balcony, in to your brain. Sorry. But what am I sorry for, actually? It’s your fucking brain, and if you don’t provide for the basic amenities… well, whatever. Maybe you want it that way.
The coolest thing is the television. I hardly watch TV, so it’s no problem for me that the thing doesn’t really work. Or does it? Generally there is just grey fuzz on it. But sometimes a picture appears, usually just for a moment. The pictures are so vivid… I have to admit I occasionally spend an hour watching the grey fuzz in the hope that something will show up. No dice. I give up in disgust… but then, once in a great while, something comes after all, for a split second. A skull, screaming, or a rose dropping a single petal in slow motion.
I was right about the picture hanging in the room though. There is dust clinging to the frame, just as I thought. Anyway, there is just one favor I have to ask: could you send up a fresh bottle of rum?
You’re tired, and you want to go home. And you can’t stop thinking about her, though you know it does you no good. Like Sisyphus you are condemned to push the rock –composed of self-reproach, chagrin, and yearning, in equal parts– up the bloody hill, only to have it roll back down. Your thoughts go in circles. The beer, wine and cocktails sloshing around in your stomach don’t exactly help to clear things up.
There is nothing worse, apart from disappointed love.
Pardon me, but what in hell is that? What is race? I know there are people willing to kill each other on the basis of racial differences, but I do not understand why. Don’t they realize that all human races are mixed? Shit, even if you ignore statistics, which are often misleading, you can be pretty sure that, for example, as a typical American white boy, you are a mix of God only knows what. I am an American „cracker“, as they used to call me in school in New York City, back in the day… well, what-all blood runs in my veins? Czech, English, French, American Indian (if the family reports are to be believed), and no one knows what else. Perhaps I am, at heart, a Bulgarian? Or a Cheyenne? Who in hell knows, and does it matter? If we are to believe the scientists, I am descended from humans who wandered from Africa in any case. Does that make me a black man? Does it make a difference? No. We are all human beings. No, we do not all have the same desires and needs. No, we are not all „equal“. What the fuck is equal? I don’t want to be equal, I want to be unique, dammit. Every single human being is unique, and, if you will, that is what unites us.
You decide to hit your head against the sink. You are very drunk, but the pain is nevertheless exquisite. You do it again, and again. She will never come back… again. Is that blood? Yes. Again. Something cracks. Is it the sink, or your head? You aren’t sure, you are extremely drunk, and the blows to your head aren’t helping either. Again. Your vision blurs… at last, you think, some results. Again. The sink cracks. The landlord will simply have to replace it. Again, again, again… again! My God, the pain! Get it done! Again! She will never come back! Again! You pass out and fall on the hard white tiles.
It was one of those cry for help things.