You Must Promise Not to Laugh

by Agaric

Modern western version. The first chapter is a bit long. Because of Philosophical rants as usual. Things get better on Tuesday.

1. Chapter 1

PROLOG

Do you have that one ex that haunts you? Or a time you feel nostalgic about, despite not being around to witness it any longer? Like something that slipped your fingers, somehow leaving you robbed of what you've never even possessed?

I do, but I'm trying to get back to meeting people again, I'm trying to get back to an ordinary world. I have to, or I'll just end up all alone and that is no way to live a life. I hope one day I'll find the ordinary world, way back to the ordinary life, just me, an average wife, a house and a family to make my parents proud.

Then I began thinking about everything. About better times, simpler times, a girl I knew, I like to think it is still out there, but perhaps its all a lie, I never really knew. Is it like that for you too? So many years have passed us by, that person you fell in love with, even if you knew them then, do you really know them anymore? Time goes mercilessly by us so quickly, everything turns unfamiliar, we only force life to make sense because we have to.

The person on your mind that you're longing for, are they something different and far more idealized than any real person? Are they a white canvas that you've painted your inner-most desires on? Something from the other side, a graphical list of qualities of what you look for in others? An idol of sorts? Those good times you remember so fondly, were they even real? Should we try to go back?

Maybe we're wrong? Maybe that has become some kind of poison? Everything gets washed in black as the separation strips your mind of its sanity. I don't know what to do when thoughts like these makes me sad, I push it all down. Yet, I'm hoping to see her in a dream one night, just to be with her again. It feels a bit weird when I dream, I think I cry in my sleep sometimes. Seeing the places of the past, returning to those bitter memories of what has been lost. Is this the rest of my life?

In another place, which I forget to remember, or perhaps I remember to forget, I sit there with you again, like I always do, with the memories of another lifetime. "How did this one go again?" I asked her. "Oh, it is the same familiar one. We help you, you help us." She said. I watched the oddly shaped mountains resting on clouds, this was such a beautiful place. The mountains were shining blue in the distance, bending over like frozen waves, or the wings of a guardian angel. The grass was greener, the sky was bluer, clouds were whiter. "I don't wanna leave" I said. "Then don't" She smiled. "I have to, I can't be here" I knew it when I told her, that I was still sleeping, I remembered that I was in my bed and soon I had to wake up from it all. "Okay, then remember to dream big" She said, smiling with hair blowing in the wind. I left her and went into a small hut, there was a short old lady standing outside "Where do you think you are going?" She asked me. "I need to go pee on the toilet" She looked at me and shook her head, scratching her head "We don't go to the toilet here" Though I smiled at her, I could feel the nail through my heart. "I know".

I woke up in the middle of the night, my body felt petrified, my breathing was heavy. I tried moving an arm, but it was tied down like a root in the wet mold. What was ahead of me was covered in blackness. That was then I realized it was sitting on top of my chest, a dark melting shadowy figure. Panic reached me, making its way up my throat, but the release of screams was gagged within my chest. Ice cold water rushed down my spine. Completely paralyzed, my neck began to burn. Something pushed against my back, and in a desperate exhausted movement, I turned my body, tossing around, as the creature fell on the floor. In the darkness of my bedroom it crawled underneath my desk in the corner, hiding its face behind pale fingers, thin like sharp crab legs.

My view was hazy, my eyes were drowsy, I was passing out again, drifting back to sleep, or so I thought. The figure was slender like an actor in black spandex, his hair was as dried up seaweeds, his eye sockets were a rotten dark. Though pale like a corpse, he looked no older than fifteen. Yet, my body refused shaking him off, as if he robbed me of all my strength. My neck was becoming jelly, then I hear a wet sprouting noise. I look over my shoulder. Six wings just erupted from my back, slimy like newborn flee larva bursting from the belly of a dead animal, they uselessly laid by my side like giant wet slugs. The child in the corner laughed like a lunatic, as if he knew that this was going to happen. As if it was all part of the plan. His black mouth had small sharp yellow teeth; his was spit was gore, colored by the flees he had eaten. The open wounds on my back seared in my flesh as the wounds instantly burned closed. The wings drained me like bloodsucking leeches, feasting on my strength as a newborn suckling on a mothers breast.

This is just a dream, I can't hold on any longer, I go blank to wake again.

Monday - Morning

I woke up to the light of day in the exact same position, thankfully the wings were gone, along with the demonic child under the table. I usually never wake up on my belly. However, I reckoned that having a bad dream could make most of us turn in bed, or perhaps turning in bed caused bad dreams, whatever comes first. Nightmares had been occurring a lot more frequently as of late. Through the window I looked out to people walking by in the distance, I concluded: it would probably not be my last bad trip. Then I got up made my way to the toilet.

My residence was a humble one, with kitchen, bed and living room all together in what one might refer to as an open solution. The door led to the bathroom, with a shower and a toilet. It wasn't much, but all I could afford while still having enough to survive comfortably in this desolate place. Many people lived here in this city, secluded to their own little box, working the eternal hamster wheel while never truly seeing each other.

My tongue was as dry as sandpaper; I relinquished the dessert in my mouth with a glass of deliciously cold water. Invigoratingly moist and refreshingly cold, as a rainfall in Sahara must be. I make good use of my time in the morning, I like to enjoy these quiet moments, just letting the shower embrace me so ever warmly, listening as the shower-head hisses, with drumming rainfall against the floor, contemplating all of life's greater mysteries. Considering how I woke up, I pondered Mohamed's descriptions of hell. Yes, the prophet of Islam, you know, the religion of peace. He saw hell and noticed that people there rested on their bellies. While I certainly preferred resting on my back to resting on my belly, my most frequent position was somewhere in between, while cuddling pillows to leave room for my blood-flow. There had been times when I wondered what I would be like to have a stuffed animal again, or perhaps a body pillow with one of those Japanese drawings of cute girls on it.

I ate my breakfast, sitting in the lap of my comfy chair, meanwhile the talkshow hoasts of today was keeping me company, talking in their charismatic confident voices. "Good morning America!" The host took a sip of his coffee "Oh, isn't that wonderful, the smell of reckoning! You know we're living in the end times. Last night, when I was watching TV. Chilling in my couch, just got home from work. I turned on the television, sat down in my best chair. Had a nice little beer-can all opened up for me, all cold and nice, GMO-free of course, wouldn't wanna render my teeth detectable by satellite. Huh, I swear to God I can hear the humming of their drones drawing closer as we're picking up more and more listeners. I'm telling you, I was dead tired yesterday, hadn't watched anything on my flat-screen for months, only work, but I love what I do so thats okay. You know, back in the day we didn't have all this internet stuff, maybe we were better off, who knows? Anyways, I was sitting in front of the screen and on comes a show, some kind of drama, don't ask me for the details, I usually don't pay attention to these kind of things, its all for those women who stay at home. I wouldn't tell ya even if I knew, it would be an embarrassment."

The host sighed, perhaps to catch his own breath "But you know, I know a lot of work goes into the production of these things. Oh yeah! Believe me, here at Freedom Now Radio we work our balls off to give you the best podcast in the entire U.S. of A. A lot of hardworking decent Americans out there who mean well. I ought to know, working my ass off to pay for alimony, you can betcha I make damn sure my kids get to see some of that money. My point is, I don't shit on people, its bad karma, sure as hell don't need that when the devil is right around the corner. Of course the real haters would love to label me as the hater, thats why we make sure to preach nothing but love here. But I hadn't watched TV for months. You see, some of these TV-shows, when you unplug yourself from the matrix and start working on your life. Creating the success that you want, living the life that is your story. Thats when you start breaking the conditioning! Because they wanna keep us down. Ouh, eat that cake, buy this, work more overtime! We're easier to control that way, good obedient little comfort zombies in the globalist army, lambs to the slaughter." He concluded.

"I had just been working furiously on a project, just got back from doing that. I have interviewed people, done shows and been out in the field. Out there in the real world, with real people! And I watched this soap opera thingy, and after gaping for five minutes straight, I just started laughing. It was truly a bizarre experience. Just another piece of evidence there that Hollywood is not in touch with the everyday man in the streets, that why we're replacing all the classical chicken shit media. They're all owned by the same conspirators anyways, the usual suspects, you ought to know who that is by now. I don't know what kind of bubble they're living in, up there in Beverly Hills, what kind of ass-licking smooth-talking imitation of life you have to adopt to survive out there, getting railed by Satan's cock for fifteen minutes of fame." He ranted.

"But I was watching this show, I swear to God it was as if I was watching a show about humans, made by aliens from a completely different universe. I tell you, the lizard people are back at it again! This seemed to have been made by someone who was just so far out, who had observed and tried to comprehend how humans interact and forged up some wooden abominable shhhha- My point is! This is what happens when you stay away from the mind-control. The New World Order are using MK ultra tactics on us! They wanna keep you in line and a slave! All bought and paid for by the deep-state, these multi-national non-elected corporate shills. I tell you, they're satanists, gathering up in the Bohemian Grove to worship the devil, having orgies in front of that owl statue. They are rotting our mind with their commercials and shows, but just log off! Cut out the middle man for a couple of days, go out and be with real people, thats what we did back then and it still works. They're filling your head using mass propaganda tools harvested from the Nazi-regime after the second world war, I'm telling ya, just look it up!" Mouth sounds were heard, I guess he was having a sip of water.

"Just take a couple of weeks and go completely off the grid and you'll know what I mean. Its actually amazing! It has gotten to the point where if you stay away and come back and look at th-thi-this GARBAGE! You don't even know what the hell you just watched, because its not a show, its an agenda and that is exactly why more and more people are waking up, thats why they're pushing facebook and mobile phones so hard on us now. I'm telling you, the mark of the beast, six-six-six, its all happening right under our noses without most of us even noticing. Not you and me though, you can call in here and tell me all about it, its today's topic. Anyways, you're listening to Freedom Now Radio, we're livin' it up here in the studio, waking comfort zombies everywhere to take part in the great revolution. We'll be taking calls from listeners, call in live here and tell us all about your woke moments at four-oh-four-five-eight-wake-up, thats four-oh-four-five-eight-wake-up, everybody! We'll be right back after some of that good eighties music-" I put the headphones down, sometimes the ambient noise of a talking person could be comforting, so I frequent a site with a huge selection of podcasts and such, but early in the morning it just made my brain feel numb. My parents generation were radio listeners, when I was little I used to listen in with them as I ate breakfast.

In front of me there was a carpet that exactly matched the color of my window curtains, for a moment I let myself go as I took in how it really tied the room together. I put my headphones on and tranquilly listened to music, cherishing every instrument with my attention, comprehending the intricate structures raised by the meeting of the sounds. Perhaps this was the reason I allowed myself to float adrift, I closed my eyes due to restless sleep. The continuous nightmares and wakeful dreams were taking its toll on me, I've had my eight hours, but my body knows what rest is and it knows what resist is, and it makes no deals. That gentle feeling came over me, it is like before you sneeze. No, its more like falling down like a feather. Like closing my eyes behind my eyelids, as if it opens a door that goes and...

Monday - Going to Work

When I woke up for a second time, for a short moment I allowed myself to enjoy my poison, as I knew stress would surely ensue when I checked for the actual time of day. Fortunately, the occupation cut my casualties short, I might have lost the bus, but I could still get to work in time by calling in a cab. I dialed in the numbers and as I got ready the shoes were waiting for me by the door. The jacket, pockets and all its familiar places, I recognized my keys and wallet where still in there. The scarf watched from over my shoulder as I beheld the residence illuminated by artificial sickly yellow light, I remembered the lyrics "There's no sunshine when she's gone" as I flicked the switch, putting my apartment to rest. The stairs down the hallway were long and steep. I wear formal shoes, and when I walk the clicking noises send echoes between the walls, as I circle my way down like water in the drain. I find the symbolism amusing; I'm descending into hell on behalf of defiance, but better the devil you know. I have had the same job for quite some time now. I never looked forward to Monday.

The door of the taxi is held open by the chauffeur, a informal gentleman in his late forties, I thought of him as Karon and his taxi was the ferry across Styx, part of the dead's travel to the underworld, all part of the greek pantheon. I vividly remember the gate to my office building, the mouth of hell, it's sliding doors opening up like a set of teeth to swallow me whole. I got into the yellow taxi and he started driving, I could smell a hint of cigarettes, I looked at his yellow fingers to confirm that he was the smoker. Neither one of us were saying anything at first. I looked out the window with a hazel stare, for I rarely drive this route. Venus was still hanging on in the morning sun; I also saw the moon gently fading in the blue early day sky, like the memory of an insane dream. Then the cabdriver asked me in his rustling voice "So, wheres you from?". I take a breath and stalled on "I..." as I exhaled while thinking of what to say "I grew up in a little rural area, pretty much, got some family here and there, it's all good. My parents moved on so much I don't even know what to tell you." In truth it's not really that complicated, I could have given him a much straighter answer, lately I've been getting more anxious and now I prefer to lie better than telling the truth, its more creative and it keeps the commercial-filtering AI's off track, so that I don't spend too much money online.

However, I noticed the Freudian slip of "Moved on" in my sentence, why would I say that? "Ah..." He exhaled as well, copying me in the spirit of good rapport. He understands how this game is played, probably better than me, he is used to talking to people "Well, I hope you got to live on the countryside. I grew up surrounded by green hills with the houses and trees. But when the farmers fertilized their grass in the spring, you almost wanted to call them up and ask them to go easy on us all. The smell was so bad you didn't dare to dry your clothes outside. Apart from that it was a charming place. In fact, now, when I go home to visit old friends, I kinda like the smell" He laughed. Amusing me into further conversation. "Sounds like a nice place, we had some farms too." I commented with a short sentence. "Yeah" he says, for a slight millisecond his eyes drifted onto the shores of memories. It didn't worry me, he was still driving by habit, attaining a hypnotic state is common while driving.

"Yeah it was", I noticed him returning with equally short answers to mine, it clued me in that we didn't have to talk at all. Curiously I asked "Do you ever wish you could go back? Like, what of the last centuries were the best?". He nodded "Don't we all? I really liked the 80s, it seemed like everything was booming back then, but that was my childhood, so I'm a bit biased.". After some careful consideration I confessed "I do get nostalgic when I think of elementary". He sighed "Yeah, the good ol' happy days, a simpler time." Probably feeling something along the same lines as I felt. Perhaps we could have been friends in elementary, it was easier getting friends back then.

I could have told him to consider that memories age like a fine wine, better with each season; those lost days are covered now with gold of the distant past. I remember the colors vividly shining. That orange glow and smell of dust kicked up by small shoes. Boys and girls gathering around, smiling happily, playing together in the school yard. A time of innocence and freedom, now lost on adult desires and worries. Upon a green hill with a staircase our flag waved in the air, that is where we took our class photo. I look at me, the little boy, smile and see someone innocent with most of his desires fulfilled. Then I look at myself in the mirror now and wonder how much has been squandered away of that boy. I wonder if someday I will find the child I used to be, or conform to whatever this modern day life is.

The hill is long gone now, they tore it all down to build a parking lot, but I remember the days when it still stood there, its how it still is standing whenever I dream about my childhood, grass shining like emeralds in the setting sun. The hill sheltered us from the wind, and I can still hear the laughing of children at play echoing through the darkness as it fades away. Until it is just a glimmer of golden twilight that was cast on the hill during the summer, the graduation before spring break, when we all met and ate hotdogs together. I wish I could do it one final time before I let it go, just to take extra care to savor that moment of hopes and dreams that save the world. Also, research seems to suggest that we easily alter our memories over time, what if most of what you derive meaning from never actually happened the way you remember it? does that make it less meaningful? If we had a deep conversation and truly saw each other, maybe we would reach the conclusion and agree that somewhere deep inside, we can find the child that we used to be and know that its not to late. Ensure each other that its never too late.

I didn't pursue that conversation with him at all, because sharing such intimate secrets is considered obscene, especially with someone you've just met. It is like: If I let you be this intimate with me, are you gonna shove your dick in my mouth next? After a long enough silence, for the sake of good manners, I retreated to my live podcasts, thank God for WiFi. I asked him if I could plug my phone into the car speakers, that way we both got to listen in on a meaningless conversation, deemed safe enough to put on a mainstream broadcast, way less taxing on my nerves than making small-talk with all its pitfalls, in a world where I feel like walking on egg-shells to never accidentally offend anyone.

"Welcome back here at the studio, we're Morning Radio today. With your two hosts: Damien Martinez, drum-roll please!" The second host chimed in "Aaaand Ronald Gustavo". At least they had good radio voices, my voice sometimes crack if I get nervous or feel strong emotions. "Good morning Ron!" Nobody says good morning like that in real life. "Good morning, goody-good morning!" Sometimes I imagine what it would be like if I went to a party and talked like a radio-host for the entire evening. "Well, Ron, there seems to be a lot going on in the world today. I read in the newspaper this morning that the tech-company MindEye announced that they will be investing in better security for their factory workers, especially in Asian countries after workers allegedly have began falling from the roof during breaks. It was some kind of netting around the building, it actually looked fun, like a trampoline or something" announced Damien "Oh, like I put around the bushes to keep the birds from stealing my berries? That kind of thing? Maybe they can use it to catch birds for dinner, they eat everything down there, besides; you need it for all the kung-fu guys getting kicked off the roof. Whoa! You know, doing karate like Bruce Lee. Whoa! Haya!" The other host made a bunch of squealing noises, I pictured him chopping with his knife hands. "Haya! Wax on wax off! Well, you know Ron, I saw that hidden tiger dragon film, its a very cultural film, they don't even speak American in it, I had to like read the subtitles. And they were jumping and flying off the roofs in that one, maybe thats just their culture? Jumping off the roof after you're done working. Well, sure is a good thing they are taking care of their much needed breaks down in China, some of those people work really long shifts" MindEye was a company that had begun buying shares in multiple companies, including the one where I was currently holding a job. In their infancy they were mostly into robot technology, some of their arm prosthesis models looked so cool it almost made me jealous, but they cost an arm and a leg. These days they were making all kinds of machinery, cell-phones, computers, you name it.

A very safe and famous podcast, that I actually enjoy listening to is Monkey Business. The host is a former professional fighter named Jeff Logan, he interviewed all kinds of guests, so I went into that for a bit "Yeah man" Logan chimed in "I remember when I started losing my hair. That shit was horrible. Waking up in the morning, seeing your pillow is full of hairs that has fallen out while you were turning in bed. You go brush and there is lots of hair on your brush. It was just leaving, I couldn't believe it. And I was just nineteen at the time, my hair was just tapping out. I was ready to go on living another eighty years, but my hair just tapping out!" Some guest with a concerned voice elaborated further "I think it freaks a lot of people out, it is the first taste of mortality really. You've been going strong since you were born, suddenly the top of your head just starts dying. You keep a watchful eye in the mirror as that little whirlpool on the top of your head grows into a baldspot, it is like you're slowly being teleported to the afterlife, starting with the top of your head" I had to disagree, the first major punch in the face was during puberty when big lumps filled with puss occupied my cheeks and forehead. "Awh yeah man, I don't even dare to think of how much money I wasted on all these hair-products, leave-in treatments, I was putting all kinds of shit on top of my head to make it grow back. And to anyone out there wondering if any of that stuff works, take a look at my shiny bald head!" The guest laughed as Logan delivered like a comedian, even me and the chauffeur grinned slightly.

"I was lucky though, this was around the time I started dabbeling in jiujitsu, if you have any hair issues, all it takes is one headlock, then you realize you have to shave it off." Logan concluded. "Yeah, that is so true. I don't even dare to think of how many dimes I blew on all these miracle treatments" The guest admitted "Well, you got a pretty full head of hair?" Logan commented. "Ah, well, its a wig" The guest said. "No way!" gasped the host. "Yeah, its a wig. It is a full on wig. I actually don't mind, but people out here in Hollywood prefer you look a certain way, so I guess this is just how its gonna be." he explained. "Are you sure of that? Because I am bald and doing just fine. I think its really all in your head" Logan challenged him. "Yeah, because you are the martial arts black belt and heavy weight champion. My audience is young skinny people" He joked back "How dare you, sir. I am a jiujitsu blackbelt, but I am also very appealing to young skinny people!" His guest laughed before continuing "I actually wrote a chapter about this whole thing in my book. Because my hairloss actually started when I did anabolic steroids. Thing is, I am one of those people born with a very low ceiling for what I can achieve. And society will be very accommodating if you shave your head, or do the classic: Just be confident, bro! Thats the most typical line. To some insanely attractive guy who is just born with a better hand of cards, just being yourself might work wonders, especially if you're the best around. But if you wanna use a medicine that really allows you to climb the hierarchy, you start meeting lots of resistance. Because its not just you reaching your preset potential from birth anymore, you can actually surpass somebody who is currently in power. And thats when you start seeing propaganda campaigns against these medicines, I call them medicines, and laws being passed to prevent people from going outside their inborn potential. It is seen as a form of cheating, because you're not allowed to become good by taking the medicines that actually works, you're only allowed to become as good as your genetics dictates, because that is fair and doesn't put people into too much of a risk for being surpassed" The guest confessed.

"Well, thats a really interesting take, I actually understand, because I see this in terms of legalizing weed and DMT. Like, the amount of spiritual growth you can get within one hour of DMT is something that would otherwise take a lifetime of meditation for some of us to attain, like me, I don't have time for that. And weed also has a whole slu of medical benefits. But I think in terms of sports, uhm, the pressure added on the practitioners, if anabolic steroids was to be allowed, would be so great that many of them would push themselves to death with the abuse of these substances, or simply turn into total freak shows" Logan retorted. "Okay, but why is it illegal for some ordinary guy who just had surgery for a prolapse in his lower back?" Logan got quiet and hummed along.

The guest continued "Or a neck injury or simply just wimpy genetics? I mean, the recovery time for grafting certain knee injuries is like what? nine months? Some of these people have low testosterone and will not be able to pack enough muscles to build a satisfactory brace around the injured area. Between twenty and eighteen percent of people who suffer a torn ACL, never return to their sport at the same level. And they're blaming it on psychological factors, in other words: Just be confident, bro! If I had lifted without the aid of these medicines when I was young, I would never have made it. When I studied I used a drug, a very powerful neuro-stimulant, I could taste music, and I went from being the worst to being the best student in my class. Everything just stuck, I could read and recall entire books, with page numbers. Wouldn't you want that for your kid if he was in my place? Loser at life, loser at school, how many people like that die from suicide? What? Just be confident, bro?" He ranted.

"Well, I would be very cautious of that, because of hormonal changes to the body, altering the chemicals in the brain and putting my child at risk" Logan argued. "Well, I would challenge you to align your belief systems on this one. The state is already giving out medicine like anti-depressants, painkillers, ADHD is making ritalin a household name, some anti-psychotics are so sedating that the user is confined to a chair. Look at me, I start-up and invest in gyms, write books, sleep with pretty women. Isn't this better? Where would I be if I listened to everyone who would have told me I was cheating?" He paused for Logan's response. "Well, I don't think it is on the same level. I think the habit of being unconfident will turn it into a losing game. The battle of comparing yourself to everyone who is better than you is a losing battle, there is always someone better." Logan reasoned. "Well, the problem with this sort of thinking is that if you have an actual issue that can only be solved a certain way, you end up walking in circles. I knew this beautiful girl, really good christian perfect girlfriend. She had a gorgeous body, beautiful thick hair, but she just didn't have a jawline. It was a forty-five degree slope right into her throat. Don't get me wrong, my standards were low at the time, though she didn't want me because I was a wimp. But the day she came home after spring break, she had her jaw fixed. I mean, she was a knock out. Like, the surgeons really have got the science right when it comes to what is an attractive female face. And that was not confidence, not working out, and she had to excuse it as a dental procedure to get acceptance for her choice to fix that-" Jeff Logan interrupted "Ah, well, I think that is different. Women have a lot of pressure when it comes to looks and being beautiful. A lot of high standards-" The guest interrupted back "No, everybody prefers things a certain way, usually what the intuition detects as good genetics, looks, money and status. Take IQ, I used a drug called Piracetam for my studies, I shit you not, I went from being a low-IQ brainlet, destined for stupid repetitive manual labor, mundane tasks, to being this genius respected mastermind who people were fascinated by, who could site study upon study-" I unplugged my telephone, I could see destination drawing near.

Monday - At Work

Well arrived at the sterile office, where the stench of white collars and leather coaches filled the room, the short barking receptionist, Lydia, who is always surprised to see me said, "Mr. Stackburns is waiting in your office" as I poured myself a Mocha Latte from the coffee machine. "Keep him waiting, there's fifteen minutes left, I wouldn't want him to miss out on those" I uttered followed by an obnoxious slurp of coffee. The suction, as well as cooling it down, delivers the duo of hot dark chocolate and bitter coffee, even to the taste buds at the very back of my mouth. Then I sighed, relaxing completely. I had arrived in time with no reason for being fired, so I let my tense forehead go loose and limp, loosly and limply, deeper relaxed, I felt the wrinkles on my forehead even themselves out. When I take the bus, I usually arrive earlier, so mr. Stackburns, my boss, had begun waiting for me by my office desk in hopes that I'd turn up before schedule, that way he could get some unpaid minutes out of me. Here I was, just trying to get by in this dog eat dog world, with everybody always trying to lay each other out. I could only hope that Stackburns was waiting for me there impatiently, meanwhile I sunk into the furniture of the reception, looking out the windows, enjoying my morning coffee. I reminded myself to keep checking myself in for work precisely on time, until Stackburns gave up, then I would start to check in earlier and so the cycle would reset itself, like a dead clock, only right twice a day. Ideally, I could waste more than one hour of his time during the course of a week, and time is money. Small simple things, hoping to get one little kick in there, just that little stab, death by a thousand needles.

The office room was in the basement; it had small windows where one could see people's shoes walking by. Mr. Stackburns waited with his fat fluid ass on my desk. He wore a grey three-piece suit with a black tie and white shirt. His hair was long and blonde, laid back in a ponytail. He had scrunches that matched the thick black frames on his wayfarer glasses. Complete with a douchey beard, he looked like a neutered male hipster viking, with a gutty piglet beer belly. Absolutely everything he did provoked me. I didn't like his face, I didn't like his voice, I didn't like the way he moved. I in particular despised his hands, he held them in a lanky fashion that accentuated their stiff and awkward qualities. I especially found this highly provocative when I was eating lunch. I consider his pink skin dirty, his beard always has sawdust of coagulated snot that clings to it like big pieces of dandruff.

Coffee falls short of covering up his breath that can only be described as highly odorous, this coupled with an awful aftershave, migraine triggering is guaranteed. He wears a Rolex watch with a Velcro strap because he broke the original bracelet pummeling his fist into the table angrily. It was made in gold, which is a gentler material than most people realize. He doesn't take good care of valuable things and replaces it with cheap shit, this goes for his watch, his diet, his values, personality and everything about his miserable existence. He is a sadist and possibly psychotic, he shouldn't be in a position of power, but instead holding up a cardboard sign in the middle of the street selling pencils from a cup.

He started talking as soon as he saw me "Good morning Randall, you're fashionably late, need more sleep now a days?" He smiled to me with his snake toothed pink face. I smiled to him and nodded, for we both knew we were enemies. "You need to get that Rolex checked; I'm actually half a minute early." And my real name is not Randall, Mr. Stackburns intentionally gets my name wrong to mock me. However, I think my name is lame, so being constantly referred to by the wrong name didn't bother me as much as Stackburns mere presence. I could have said: No reason to mock good sleeping habits, you're in earlier and failed to remember my name correctly. I've done something similar before, he just laughed it off and said "Whatever Richard" Which is not my name either. Besides, I suspected he regrets destroying his expensive Rolex bracelet, so that is where I will sting him. He does his usual line, the "Whatever" but from the emotional delivery I sensed my efforts in wounding him might have paid off, or at the very least he knew I was getting away with covert acts of defiance. He tossed out a checklist on a sheet of paper and said "I'm gonna need these finished and at my desk before lunch, I need you to mark all words with different colors corresponding to their first letter. Then after lunch I want you to write a detailed ten pages long report of your work today, got that?" Then he looked at me. These moments are crucial, if you can get past this without showing weakness you've won.

He was always playing mind-games with prolonged eye-contact. I stiffed my upper lip and shrugged my shoulder nonchalantly replying, "Sounds delightful". Mr Stackburns looked me dead in the eye and said "I bet it does" to which I stared back and said "Okay" slightly less serious than he did, and then he smiled his fake ugly face, deep down he was just a coward masquerading behind his lame power games. He began making his way out of the office "Lots of work for you today Rooney, you're doing a great job" I sat down behind my desk "Take care of yourself ..." Then I looked at his pink face, like a predator, waiting for that perfect moment when the shield comes down "...I dig the suit" Then the door shut. He somewhat perplexed me, I had always wondered how psychopaths like that get themselves into a respectable job, overseeing others. Of course it made sense to put the worst manager ever in charge of an operation like this. Still, one had to wonder how a perfumesoaked old blazer wearing bitch could be put in charge of so much. One explaination is that people with such an erection for authority would sign up for almost anything, even a blind pig will stumble upon a truffle. Then again, he did have talent for being totally shameless, I bet he is a really good ass-kisser to his boss.

One time, Stackburns managed to contradict himself in one sentence, saying that I didn't work enough during my office time, when he previously had said that he was to busy to pay attention to me. When I pointed this out he got absolutely livid, I think that was the time he called me "Way to unstable to hold a position in any respectable company". I wonder how many positions he has held before he became my boss. Did he start on the floor? Perhaps in doggystyle, or on his knees sucking some higher up's dick? How does that work? Do you start with the janitor and work your way up to CEO? Just getting your face way in on that asshole, rubbing that soft wrinkly tissue with your tastebuds, until you feel yesterdays dinner. Then you just keep on going, licking ass, sucking dick and letting them fuck you over, until you finally, without a shrivel of pride, can call yourself the boss of something.

In the office, I am like an island, there are other desks here as well, but they are tombstones. This is not an ordinary office. This is not an ordinary job, the work is referring to is coloring words in long documents of gibberish in twenty-six different colors corresponding to their first letter, totally pointless. Before all this the word "Oidashibeya" was unkown to me. The only Japanese words I knew were simple ones, like "Samurai" or "Konishiwa", wich means hello. Now I have learned the meaning so well that I'm starting to forget it. The Japanese practice of assigning workers whom the company don't want to keep, but can't legally fire, to do mundane tasks so boring the workers quit out of mental pain. "Oidashibeya" means chase-out-, force-out- and boredom room. The plackets with names are still present on the desks of the ones who have left, like the head of fallen kings put on display to taunt me. insisted they stay there, for the sake of protocol. I like listening to a song by "the Darkness" while I work, it goes like this:We are survivors, the ones left behind, defenders of the legacy, the last of our kind. It's a victory song, for every day here is a victory. Yet, nothing out of the ordinary ever happens, I deliver my work on his desk as usual, at least I work alongside men who inspire defiance. I put my earbuds in and searched through the many radio-channels to hear the thrilling gallop of voices, seeking relief from the solitude.

"Wow, Ron, you just blew my mind there." They were still going, the morning show with Damien Martinez and Ronald Gustavo, I couldn't believe I had been spammed with this brain shrinking superfluous nonsense enough times to actually remember their whole names. "I couldn't believe it either Damien, I had to check twice. My roomate had actually put the nutella into the refrigerator, I mean who does that?" I really loved how these two types could waste entire hours talking about absolutely nothing "Well, even I wasn't born yesterday, if that was on purpose that is a major dick move in my book. Maybe we should take some callers? Yeah, I think we have a caller here, this is Cynthia, hello Cynthia?" Really, people call in to this? "Hello Damien" The flirting voice of a younger female crackled through the telephone, why do telephone voices still sound the same as in the eighties? Aren't we making all kinds of technological advances?

"Yeah Cynthia, what do you think about this whole nutella in the fridge situation my man Ron is dealing with here?" Asked Damien. "Well, one time I was seeing this guy who was always putting my chocolate jam in the fridge, I think he was like some kind of health freak or something. He had a real nice body, but it was like so annoying, just like: Oh my God! Like, in the morning when you really want that chocolate with your bread and somebody has put it cold, that's just no-no" Her voice wasn't the least bit annoying, it just sounded like an old door screaming in an abandoned building somewhere in Chernobyl. "Yeah, you know when you go to smear that stuff on your bread in the morning, yeah?" Said Ronald "Yeah- yeah, I know right. Your bread is gonna get smooshed, haha! I tried to get it on the bread and it just got ripped to shreds and then you have to scoop the mess up and eat it with a spoon. Its so annoying when the chocolate jam gets too stiff." Cynthia laughed "That is just gonna destroy that shive! There, you heard it from Cynthia, now we go straight to the next caller!" Yelled Ronald. "Yeah, you got bread-wrecked!" The sound effect of an air horn honked three times. "Say whoot-whoot!" Damien jumped back into the limelight shining on the microphone. I changed the station at this point, hoping there was something better out there in the frequencies.

"And that is what I say. Cuz we got a lot of younger people coming in to us here for answers, looking because they try to find the missing piece of the puzzle." A southern voice of an elderly man spoke through the headset "And I tell ya'all, the answer is the lord Jesus. For you have already been saved! You can live a righteous life with the lord. Free from sin and feelings of guilt, ask for forgiveness and your sins will be undone by the word of God. But faith is not enough, you have to act on your faith. Seein' aint' belivin. You see what has been done on to this world, therefore believin' is doing. And I feel there is somebody out there listening, an elderly lonely woman, a frustrated man searching for love, angry young men who feel confused and misunderstood, I sense someone out there fightin' lots of disease, living in sickness. Oh lord oh Jesus, I feel you out there, looking for meaning in your life, waiting. Tellin' yourself that one day something will show up that is gonna be worth it. I'm tellin' ya, you got to act on your beliefs. You got to want it bad enough to pick up that phone, dial five-oh-nine-Lord-Save-Me, it could be a small donation it could be a big donation, as much as you are ready to believe! Give us the money and it fixes everything! But give much and you shall receive much, if you want to prosper-" I turned it off, this wasn't really my thing, tried to find some better content.

"This is Jim Lee and you're listening to the Jim Lee Show, coming at you from the sweetest place on this side of heaven. Hallelujah! Isn't that amazin'? Well for today's great question, we will be talking about the modern day issue. The great moral decline, brought forth by the children of the lie. I grew up during the Jim Crow laws and back then blacks were a moral people. You don't see that today. The women are acting all crazy, the men don't even wanna deal with them no mo. Because you speak up, then they get nasty. And the state, the fallen state everybody! They made it so that a woman can be on her worst behavior, actin' all crazy, because they reward that. They get the money, so that the state is usurping the true father, the men are supposed to have the money, you are in this to make money. So I am releasing this book now, called Rebuilding the family. And we'll do that if we rebuild the man." He said and paused for a moment "I sometimes ask: Are black people cursed? My book is really for the children in the inner cities, so that they can rise out of poverty. But I looked and I saw, white people move in to a place, then it gets cleaned and stays nice. Then, when the black people come, it gets filthy and its a disaster. Are black people cursed? Whites need to have more children, if whites ever lost control of this country it would be a disaster. Black people were moral back in the day, but today I think Satan is their daddy" Nervously, I cast a quick glance over my shoulder, just to be assured that I was all alone, so that nobody could overhear what I was listening to.

I actually occasionally liked listening to this guy, he was slightly more pragmatic than people preaching and singing for no other reason than it being a hobby. "They wanna be called Muslim, or Afro-american. How about just American? These people who lived all their lives in Chicago wouldn't know Africa if you showed it to them. I am as black as an ace of spades, I don't have an afro, I have an ameri-fro! They vote for the politicians who say: illegal immigration is good. It is good to them if it puts white families into poverty, they say that its redistributing the wealth gained from slavery and exploitation to the people in need. Black Americans, why are you all complainin'? Although slavery was a bad thing, it turned out to be a great thing for us, because we could be stuck down in Africa somewhere" I reached across my desk, unfortunately, I accidentally touched the screen and switched over to 'Breaking the Glass Cieling'. This was the undisputed train-wreck of podcasts, a crowning achievement in victimhood culture, where a pale chubby girl named Madelen was constantly begging for money and spreading her love of going full retard lefty, without having a single limiting principle, yet I admired her persistence of actually having a podcast "And they don't refer to their sons as "he", instead opting for the word "hen", which is slightly more feminine and diverse. That is how far Sweden has come, yet here we haven't even had a female president yet, we're being run by a patriarchy consisting solely of a bunch of disgusting white, EWW! WHITE! male rapists. I talk to a lot of women in collage and they are telling me that ever since the election of our openly racist, sexist, misogynist nazi president, they don't feel safe. But what you can do is to donate to my at break the glass ceiling, every penny helps, we're setting up safe spaces on campuses all across America. We proudly call ourselves pussies, because we are sensitive, yet we can take a beating" She triumphantly exclaimed.

I turned it over to Freedom Now Radio, the host was right in the middle of one of his rants. "The devil is speaking! DESTROY THE CHILD! They're eating babies! I'm just gonna go all out there and say it, I don't care if you make fun of me on CNN. They engage in satanic rituals, so called spirit-cooking, this is what they based the Silent Hill video games on and why they eventually shut down both that and the Metal Gear Solid franchise, they were dropping too many truth bombs. Open your eyes, the Japs are trying to tell us something! I know high ranking bankers and Freemasons that funded Shigeri Myamoto, this is how the they send their signals. Hiding it in plain sight, right under the nose of the zombie consumer, under the noses of our children. A deck of playing cards depicted the events of nine-eleven! There are gay love letters in the twinkles of the Mario Galaxy logos! Wake up, these are not coincidences, never forget that no plane hit the third building that day. It was a controlled demolition, that is what all the construction workers say. I tell you, somewhere out there, the anti-Christ is sitting in his cave, waiting, just waiting! Inter dimensional space demons taking possession of the human body!" I chuckled a little, he had very high energy.

Eventually I just settled for listening to one of Jeff Logans older podcasts on the internet. He was interviewing the psychologist Fred Jordanson, way back when he released his book "Should I Clean my Room or Jerk Off?" It started right in the middle of Jeff Logan reflecting on something "Hmm, you know, I think young men just need to go into the wild. Just live down in the Amazons for a week, it fixes everything." Fred Jordanson agreed with him "Yeah, because thats the belly of the beast. The wild forest is a place of natural chaos and when you let that change you, burn off all the deadwood, then you can become someone who is going places. Its actually one of the core messages in my book. But do you want that eh?" Jeff Logan was silent for a moment, letting the question sit a little "Why do you think that your messages, of stop masturbating, go clean your room, resonates so much with young men?" Jeff asked. "Well, lets face it. Internet porn has come a long way since we were young. When I grew up, to even just get porn, we had to brave our way through cold blizzards as we dug through trash in the hopes of finding some torn up magazine, with pictures, only pictures. We had to work and earn that! Today's youth don't do that. There is so much free porn on the internet, you can keep on going forever. Man, do you remember internet porn in the ninety's? You'd wait ten minutes, just to look at a clip of some pixels having sex for ten seconds, it was brutal. Compare that with today, when young men, sit all alone in dark filthy apartments, eating cheese doodles and jacking off, constantly! Re-enforcing that comfort seeking behavior with constant dopamine releases, making you even more inclined to be locked up inside alone in your apartment, jacking off. How about sheathing your sword before you have a heart attack, bucko? Blessed are the ones who carry swords and sheathe them, for they shall inherit the kingdom of heaven, and it is so true"

Occasionally, I find other ways to make the clock tick faster. Sometimes my ears get sore from listening to the constant babbling of conversations. Whenever this happens I often find myself posting on anonymous message boards, I like those. I like the way it makes people equal, all you have is your keyboard. You're judged on how well you present your message in writing, it is the only think that determines the response you get. If you're a gorgeous big titty woman, or just some run of the mill everyday Betty, the factor of who is presenting the message is taken completely out of the equation. Video might have killed the radio star for a while, but it also resurrected the ghost writer. I usually post about this weird feeling I get whenever I experience culture from the 80s, how things just seemed so much more wholesome back then. For example, one might not have those home gaming systems with gorgeous 3d graphics, but instead you would have the arcade. A place to go with the money you earned from mowing your neighbor's lawn, an incentive to offer to mow the lawn in the first place, in order to play some pixelated game on a big glowing cabinet. If a gamer wanted to get to know somebody you could just ask them to be your player two down there. Or instead of streaming movies, you could rent them at the VHS rental at some gas station. Perhaps even make small talk with people you meet there, discussing and recommending movies to each other.

Was it really such a good idea to get rid of all that? What about automation right now? My aunt went from working at a Cafe to filing papers for a rich tech company. The job payed well, it was done during regular work hours, there was little to no education needed. Now, that job is gone, it is done automatically by a computer program. There was a time when most stores closed so early, you could actually have a life besides being a cashier. I like to think that if I had lived back then, though I would lose a lot of technological advances, the replacements would be better, besides being more primitive. Why do we need cell-phones? With the demand of being flexible in most jobs, it practically makes you a slave. You never have time off, your boss can call you up and nag you about work whenever, with the thinly veiled threat of not giving you a raise or promotion always looming above your neck. I guess things were just more hopeful back then, in the movies they would travel to our future, it would be a bright neonlit utopia, complete with flying cars. That was their thought of the natural progression of things, that is what they thought of us. I compare that vision of the future with the future that actually was and I immediately want a time traveling Dolorean to undo this mess. Perhaps it was that big terrorist attack that did it? Was that the beginning of sacrificing freedoms for the sake of feeling safe? Perhaps I am guilty of that too? They automated my job, but I'm still holding on and with a contract that keeps work in the time window where it belongs, at least I still got that, so I don't want to quit before I have to. According to statistics, productivity sky-rocketed over the last years, but for the everyday average person the wages have stayed the same. The tech-boom in the late 90s seems to have been led by a bunch of people who bottled up our future and kept it for themselves. The industries we work for keep growing, while our apartments shrink.

Before lunch I delivered the document, fully color-coded, for Mr. Stackburns' eyes to see. Seeming unimpressed he told me "It wouldn't kill you to do it faster, I might be able to put in a good word for you if you work more effectively, to get you back on the floors upstairs". Then I smiled, while politely telling him "Sure". He chuckled a little, before getting his game face back on "Excuse me, your reports aren't exactly efficient. This is a simple task, but that doesn't excuse lack of finesse. I feel that you're at a certain level where most people wouldn't catch on" He explained, while waving his hands and gesturing his eye brows to hide his empty words. "It is a bit hard to explain, but I get a sense of emptiness, that you are bringing a empty kind of vibe. I really don't think you're cut out for this. Of course it is hard to put the finger on it, but it is like you don't reach, you know, you don't reach anybody and is left with emptiness and bringing that to other people, and its not your fault but you're inadvertedly caussing a sense of discomfort. A lack of self-refelction, a problem very deep and difficult to pronounce, wich is why you are here. Maybe you should consider another job, that would be willing to deal with someone as... No, I'm not gonna say that" I tried to act politely frustrated because I knew that I had to "I think that with you, goodness is perfections greatest enemy". After leaving his office I dropped my benevolent facade. I of course never actually do any of the assignments Mr. Stackburns gives me; using my experience with programing, I can develop a code that allows me to instantly change the colors of all words in a document, using the first letter after a space as a condition for the color variable. For the report, I simply hit the keyboard randomly, then save and corrupt the file before sending it in as a report.

In the beginning Mr. Stackburns used to heavily critique all my reports no matter how well written they were, but after a while I found it strange how the critique was always so vague. One reason could be that part of the "Force-out" treatment is to overwhelm workers with hard monotone work for no reward, taking away their motivation and happiness. Thus, Mr. Stackburns was obligated to slaughter all of my reports, preferably getting in a couple of personal hits below the belt, disguised as constructive feedback, no matter how good they were, but I had a different suspicion. So one day, after a meeting where Mr. Stackburns had worn a white blazer he frankly was way too old for, along with a perfume that shouted "Hey, I'm desperate!" He gave me the constructive criticism of being way too unstable and out of touch with humanity to ever hold a decent job, and that I should lower my expectations and seek somebody with low enough standards to hire me, though very discretely and with a polite tone. I made a full report and kept it for myself, while the report I sent him, on the other hand, was a corrupted document containing senseless letter-soup I made by bashing my head against the keys. However, the next day Mr. Stackburns still critiqued my report as if he had read it, something I knew he couldn't have. That made me realize Mr. Stackburns doesn't really read my reports, he probably never read any of our reports, because they are about long and boring tedious work tasks to bore devalued employees into submission, it all made perfect sense.

Ever since then I have pretty much gotten paid for doing nothing. The little work I do takes less than five minutes, I spend the rest of my day programing, reading, playing games and looking at videos of fluffy animals. I adapted to this harsh work climate, the other ones couldn't adapt and perished as a result. Those are the laws of nature. Survival of the fittest, not the strongest. I don't work harder, I work smarter.

Monday - Leaving the Office

I signed off for the day and I hadn't even broken a sweat. The ritual before I go home for the day is to visit the local coffee shop by the bus station. I love to see people there. The worst thing about the office is its hollow solitude. I cherished all the people I saw in the coffee shop: The black Jamaican with his dreadlocks reading the newspaper. The old lady with the wrinkles pouring from her lips, red coat and beige scarf, the hipster sat on his fancy computer with big headphones, the girls catching up with one another by the window. And, the Pakistani cabdriver sipping coffee with an untouched roast beef sandwich still on his plate. The sound of their gentle daily banter created a myriad of acoustic noises, like music it soothed me and I felt my tongue expanding as the tension left my mouth, as if my spit tasted sweeter.

For some reason I had this creeping eerie feeling, like something wasn't quite right. As if there was hair raising tension in the room. The kind of tension there is in a room when we pretend everything is fine, but things are rapidly getting worse. I looked around, until I notice a dark, long raincoat clothed figure, standing outside in the window. His hands were smooshed against the glass, as he held them up, as if he was holding binoculars, gesturing that he was staring directly at exactly me. I stare back at him, uneased, knowing that this is probably some psyhotic bum having a fit. I try to recognize his face, but the way he is holding his palms over his eyes engulfs him in shadows. I get tired of staring back, I don't compete in staring contests with street creatures. The cashier smiled welcoming to me and said "What can I get you sir?". I stared back at the window and the dark man was gone. Well, out of sight, out of mind.

I was eighteen years old when people first started referring to me as sir. She is young and attractive, probably not older than nineteen, I bet she is studying at the local university. Dark brown voluminous hair in a ponytail poking out the back of her cap. blue eyes and a few small spots of acne here and there on her forehead, but I feel confident her pores are mostly pure, I have trained myself to remove a woman's makeup in my mind's eye. I've also trained myself to remove her clothes, for a short glimpse I can vividly envision her young naked body and she is quite tan, toned and tight. "Yeah" I said with a deeper relaxed voice, I noticed the change, my body expressed a desire to mate with her. Had I been an animal I'd take her right then and there on the counter in front of everybody. She would say "No, not in front of the customers" but I would lean down over her delicate body and whisper "Yes" look deeper into her eyes and smile while groaning "Let them watch!".

This will of course never happen; I don't know her or any of her friends. Our worlds are probably not much alike and there is no obvious way to cross over, she is simply just a satellite, floating in the solitude of space, giving me signals. However, the thought of dominantly forcing myself on her like a caveman still crosses my mind. "I'll have a Pistachio Rose Latte, extra dirty" That is my line, in the context it means water out the coffee with the other ingredients. I never bought mocha from her, only the coffees made for an adult sophisticated audience, the kind of coffee a man drinks. "Extra dirty coming up" She said flirtingly while biting her lip, I wondered how she would rank me from one to ten. Her cute ponytail fascinates me, it stands out so playfully, I want to touch it, she has it and I would like to capture it, tame it, pull it. The barista who made the coffee was a muscular Italian male, sometimes she politely laughs of his jokes, and this leads me to believe that perhaps they've had sex in the toilet-booths here, maybe on the annual Christmas dinner for the workers. I found these thoughts repulsive and brushed them off, so I could look at the barista with the eyes of a professional modern human being, completely neutered of all primitive urges and emotions, while he expertly crafted my overpriced, yet trendy and sophisticated coffee.

"Would you like the receipt?" She asked me. I looked at her and began smiling for some reason "Yes, I'd..." I paused for a short moment, just thinking how futile this gesture was "...I actually need that one for today". She printed it out and hastily ripped it from the machine "Here you go" She said, and as she passed me the receipt, our fingertips graced each other for a short second, she was soft and it tickled a little, then she stopped paying attention to me and turned quite cold. "Here is your coffee Sir" Said the Italian man, "Thank you very much" I had now been socially stimulated just enough to go one more day without committing seppuku. I left for the bus station. I guess this is as good as it gets for the modern not above average guy. Or maybe Stackburn's daily needles to my self-esteem is starting to get to me.

I sat waiting for my bus and felt the bench underneath me get increasingly flatter. I did nothing but toss pebbles on to bigger pebbles, seeing how far I could move them before the bus arrived. Pigeons gathered around, but left as soon as they realized I wasn't handing out any free food. After checking the time, I assumed the bus was stuck in the afternoon rush from the bigger city further away, so I ordered myself a cab. The bus company advertised to refund cab fare if they were more than fifteen minutes late. I also wondered, if only by mere chance alone, I could get the same cabdriver as earlier that morning. Then I would know that God tried to give me a friend. I had thought of the conversation we had shared, it tasted of bittersweet melancholy and I would have loved to talk more. Much to my disappointment the driver I ended up getting had a completely different temperament and carried himself, and me along with him, in an even solemn. He sat in his seat as if he was driving the queen of England, as if he was nothing but a humble servant of mine. His blood crackled in his veins, cold and formal like golf balls through a ventilation pipe. I missed that African spark, that joyful mumbo of the heart, that jazzy blue voice of the river I had heard earlier. I took view towards the streets cloaked in autumn. The leaves danced a final ballet before passing out on the pavement. I see some kids bullying someone lying on the ground; Whatever, life as usual.

At first I didn't even care, but I was horrified when I realized it was a cat "Stop here!" The driver hit the brakes slightly as he must have been spooked "Ok-ok, no problem" And for a short moment I felt rude, but this was an emergency. I told the driver "I'll be right back" and I quickly ran out roaring "HEY!" as in chunks of saliva flew from my teeth, like I was a rabid dog. The kids started running away, leaving the poor animal behind "I'll rip your ears off!" I shouted after them. The cat they left behind wasn't exactly a prime specimen, it stanched of piss like every bum does, it was somewhat malnourished and had a long, but lousy blonde fur coat knitted with balls of tangles here and there. After being scared by the children it just passively laid there, purring while looking shyly way, hoping this would deescalate things. Barely opening its eyes, anticipating random mercy. I wanted to leave it behind as the children were gone and it was probably full of fleas, but I just can't stand cruelty towards animals, it is the one thing I just can't deal with, I was growing a bitter ball in my throat for the little dirty rag, and I decided right then and there that Rag was what I would name the cat. Now, I couldn't leave. This was no ordinary cat anymore, smelly as he was, he was Rag and had a kind temperament. Ouh! I did it again, projecting characteristics on to Rag, who was very kind and hoped internally screaming for me to help him. I had been summoned by God to help him, he was looking at me from above, judging the value of my poor soul. If I took care of this cat, perhaps I was worthy of a redeeming miracle? I rolled Rag up in my coat and walked back into the taxi "Take us to the nearest veterinarian" This was no time for greed, yet I couldn't help but feel slightly relieved when the chauffeur turned off the taximeter, earthly money was still pretty important to me, just barely placing second after a pet's life, I guess he liked animals too then. Some other guy might have refused to let a stinky cat into his cab, I was lucky.

Monday - Making a home

The day had long since passed when I arrived back in my apartment with Rag on my arm, they trimmed off all the knots in his fur, then gave him a much-needed bath. They also did an x-ray and ultra sound, checking for fractures and internal bleeding. He didn't have any, so the treatment worked very well, and though it wasn't cheap I'm glad I could afford it. The girl asked me if I also would like to have him castrated, but I said "No, not today" Then she explained all the benefits of castrating cats to me, they literally get aids now a days, but I said "Let him keep his balls!" She said nothing, she just looked disappointed and I repeated myself "Let him keep his balls, he's been through enough!" By the way she reacted, I guess this is what most of the men who were in my place decided to do. I let Rag down and he wandered around on the floor, sniffing around, as I checked my refrigerator for food. I had some liver pate, but upon opening the lid, it revealed a grayish green dot of mildew.

Where he had been shaved, Rag looked a bit like a war-jew from a concentration camp, so not feeding him was definitively out of the question. All I had for him was a vacuum-packed loin of sushi salmon, that lucky bastard. I expertly cut him a nice sashimi, but I added some oil just to fatten him up a little, then I let it cool down to about room temperature before serving. The meat looked swole with nutrients and taste in all its glace. Meanwhile Rag enjoyed the gourmet feast I cleansed and refilled my battery-driven little zen fountain. He could drink from its gentle running water when he was thirsty. I sat down in the chair thinking I would finally get to relax, perhaps listen to some music. It was all thwarted when I realized something, Rag needed a place to go take a shit; I had to go buy him cat sand. I just wasted the most expensive food in my house on him, when I had to go to the store to pick up cat food and sand anyways. Nevertheless, with Rag, fresh in my apartment, purring while eating, this too was okay. Rag wasn't the cutest cat I'd ever seen, but gratitude and humbleness goes a long way.

On my way to the store I enjoyed imagining what Rag could possibly feel. He was the pauper turned into a prince. One second you're sleeping in the street, eating garbage, the next thing you know you're eating gourmet food and drinking from a zen fountain, with all the worlds worries behind you. Everyday life seems so dull, so I hang on every meaningful word the world whispers to me, searching for the relieving truths. I am the catalyst. Are we all just objects and catalysts? Kings and pawns, gods and men? This was the power that I had now, this was what I could do and for Rag it meant everything. I made this happen alone, God didn't save Rag, I did. Perhaps the world only makes sense when we force it to?

Alternatively, in the case of a benevolent God, the world we experience now is the best world possible, God was simply acting through me. This would comfort me more, for the simple fact is that there are millions of Rag's in this world, they're all begging for help, and my gesture of compassion is no more than a raindrop falling on a burning forest. If God is cruel enough to deem their suffering necessary, then who am I to curse my luck? I can continue to drink my expensive coffee and get my checks in the mail, without a flicker of remorse, for I am the fortunate one, chosen by God to a paradise on earth. I did not like where my reflections were going, so I focused on the happiness Rag gave me and pretended these thoughts never occurred. Soon I'd be buying lots of things for myself from the store, I couldn't see myself walking down this road again anytime soon. My ignorance is just the echo of every modern-day man, in a world too big to even care about. There is enough good in the world to become a whale of lard, there is certainly enough bad to drown in a river of your own tears. Most of the times we default to ignorance. As I entered the store I looked at myself in the security recording displayed on a screen, I met myself in the doorway.

I snagged myself some frozen vegetables, some lean meat and soup powder. I looked around the isle, the people there were all much older looking than me and I felt a disconnect to the world. Had it been any other day, I would have paid for my groceries and gone home, but as I put the cat food up on the counter I saw something new. I saw proof that I was not just a wandering flesh corpse, I saw that I didn't live on bread alone. For along with my simple food there were products with the faces of cats smiling at me. As much as I was disconnected from the world now, I had a responsibility to at least try to create a life worth living, if only for my cat. At the very least, I had a little something within Rag worth scrambling myself across the finishing line over.

Outside of the little store the grocery bag and cat sand weighed my shoulders down, pulling on my spine. The streets were getting dark, the sky filled the streets with a dim blue. As I walked the echo of my footsteps got cast between concrete walls, filling me with a rising sense of paranoia. My constant thinking through the day was manifesting its stress, as if my brain was a rubber band, ready to snap. I stopped for a bit and looked at the dark silhouette of my shadow, there were two of them. As I quickly turned around I saw the same raincoat clothed man that had stared at me from the window. "You know its coming! You can feel it, can't you?" He shouted. I backed off so quickly that I almost lost my balance "Stay away from me!" I clenched my fists around the grocery bag unwilling to let them go, hoping I wouldn't have to."The walls are melting, it is seeping in like black smoke! It is coming!" He screamed, with fear and laughter. I began began running away, looking back at him, standing there, continuing to howl through the night.

When I finally reached the door, my heart beat heavily in my chest. I tried calming myself, repeating over and over that this man was just some poor goof who had warped his mind with drugs, whom tired of living in constant despair over his miserable life, sought comfort in the chaotic freedom of madness. An unfortunate destiny seen too often in any major city. I shouldn't feel fear, but pity. However, seeing such a terrible display of vicious fate disturbed me, I wasn't able to feel any pity, only disgust and nauseating aversion. Eventually imagining myself beating him up, perhaps even killing him as an act of self-defence, and though it disturbed me, I could not deny detecting a touch of a sick twisted form of pleasure. Perhaps that is the most scary thing? I checked every door and closet in my entire apartment, then rested, sitting on the floor for a couple of minutes. Remembering the beaten to death quote: We stopped looking for monsters underneath our beds when we realized that they're in our heads. Rag came over, he was soft like a blanket, I finally breathed clean air. That is a good kitty. But what was that smell? In a corner by the window, Rag had relived himself in a small puddle. Fair enough, he didn't have anywhere else to go, at least it wasn't on the carpet. I thoroughly cleaned it, then set up his toilet on that spot.

Monday - Evening News

Finally, when I had set everything for the night, brushed my teeth fresh and clean. I sat down in my chair to have the last moments of the day to myself. Rag was stuffing his face with food, making loud wet tickling noises mixed with rolling purrs. I turned the tv on to watch the news. The news anchor wore a blue tie "The controversial radio host Jim Lee, otherwise known as reverend Lee, is facing major backlash after spouting racial slurs on his podcast. This is not the first time his radio show sparks controversy, as in June he faced similar critique from the Undocumented Migrant Association of Democrats, after repeating violent rhetoric calling Mexican immigrants rapists and killers. This time the Undocumented Migrant Association of Democrats are mobilizing, compelling local politicians to push for legislation to put an end to hate speech".

It cut from the news studio to the scene of a protest, it seemed like a pretty big turn out and rap music was blasting into the streets. A bald Latino guy with goatee, a black tear tattooed in the corner of his eye and some inked spider webs peeking out from his tank top, very upset, shouted into the camera. "Fuck that coon reverend and this whole bullshit presidency! We come here, to the land of the free, we are free, this is our country too! He ain't got the cojones to come say that shit down here!" Then it cut to a different, calmer latin guy wearing a black hoodie and sunglasses "Eyy, you know we contribute to the economy. Many here worked for several years, doing lots of good work. And this racist guy on the radio keep on telling Americans that our blood is not red enough. We contributed, we should be allowed to vote on matters that concerns us, that is why I say the presidency is fake, cause you never asked our opinion, we are the immigrants, you are a nation of immigrants. We live here too now, you just don't give us paper, its not our fault that you won't document us" He reasoned, right before it cut to a woman wearing a pants-suit inside of a bright building.

With her arms crossed and annoyed expression she talked in a confrontational tone "We have called for stricter regulations of speech on issues that concern hatred towards undocumented immigration for years, clearly the president is silent on this issue, but his silence speaks volumes. Now we have this talkshow-host saying that black people are cursed and the spawn of the devil, just saying slavery is good for black people on the radio, I think this kind of inability to regulate speech reveals the moral character and mental state of our president and white people in this country" The interviewer asked "There has been a lot of outrage over Jim Lee's comments on black people, does it make a difference that Lee himself is black?" She tilted her head "No, there is absolutely no place for this kind of violent word-use in our society. This kind of rhetoric can only lead to another holocaust. Everyone who uses words like these are expressing fascist ideas and we have to be brave enough to call it out" The interviewer then concluded "We contacted all of Jim Lee's service providers and partners about his recent controversy, even mastercard were unable to comment. It remains to be seen if America is brave enough to prevent race war, back to the studio." At the studio the anchorman had a concerned look on his face "Oof, really bad stuff, you should really be upset about this. In other news, jewish scholars suggest rounding up the amount of victims during the holocaust, from seven to ten million, making it easier to remember and more functional for our times, Diane has got more on this." I turned the TV off after a while, I was unable to pay attention, beginning to fall asleep in the chair.

I just went to my bed. My mouth still felt polished and fresh, my teeth were smooth like pearls. My back started to melt into the mattress, and with each breath I felt like I was riding a roller coaster: Inhale – the roller coaster goes up, exhale – the roller coaster drops down. Rag was still walking around the apartment, but I knew he would settle down and sleep eventually. I kept imagining myself in a situation going downwards, like in an elevator. On my forehead rested a heavy ball of strain and stress. As it was time to sleep now I imagined it pouring out, all over my body. The strain and stress started pouring out of my body, leaving me relaxed and ready to let go. Listening to the rain gently hitting my window. Moreover, right before my wakefulness left entirely, I remembered white blue mist. Then time and being became muddy, shapeless, drifting away into the meadows of the beyond.

Restless Dreams

One time, the first year I lived far away from home, I dreamed that my parents and sister were all riding together in the old car. It was summer, we were driving to the house on the hill with a view of the ocean. I faintly remember the seagulls calling out in the distance, the waves rolling on to the shores and the feeling of childhood summer holiday. In the dream, I was seven years old again. We sat in the car waiting for the ferry to arrive. Mom, dad and sister were making me laugh all the time we waited. Then we drove aboard and parked the car. Mom and dad went to the cafeteria, "Do you guys want anything?" Mom asked. I wanted waffle with strawberry jam, then I turned around to look for my sister, to watch her reveal what she wanted, but her seat was empty. When I looked back at mom, she was gone too. I looked through the windows of the cars all around me; perhaps they were hiding outside. I looked under the car seat in front of me. Everybody was gone, but I found a friend I had not seen since kindergarten, the old cat I grew up with. One day he just went missing and never returned, was it because he was just hiding in the car all this time? It all made sense in the dream. He was still as affectionate as ever to me, so kind and gentle always. Now he was back in my arms and I could feel his long soft fur, holding him again, as I had longed to do. Then I'm grown up and realize I'm just imagining things while holding my teddy bear. I leave the car to search the ship. I realize it is totally abandoned, drifting at the sea in the middle of nowhere, with no captain. It gets colder and white mist thickens all around. Small blocks of ice float in the water; we must be several miles off course. I realized that I had to deal with this all alone. I feel a weep coming from within, this wasn't supposed to happen, I did something wrong, I need to go back, please God, let me go back.

For No One is More with the Reaper

I opened my eyes again, my eyes were flicking around me, and initially I had no idea where I was. The disturbed feeling diminished as I start recognizing my furniture, then I saw my empty bed gaping at me, I felt cold. Disoriented I was frozen in place, analysis paralysis. Although the room had nothing but the poor blue light of the night sky I could still see my hands before me, I saw my legs beneath me, but there was something moving in the corner of my eye. Knowing this made all the small hairs on my neck stand out, then bursts with shock as I looked over my left shoulder. Three giant feathered swan wings, stretching so far that they reach the walls. On my right, three equally giant bat like wings, black leather stretched across bones, they were mounted on to my back. Where is Rag, is he safe? I turned around to look for him, I hear a loud noise behind me, one of my wings knocked a picture of the wall. The thought going through my head was: this is all a dream and I can take control of it, but my room is in exact detail, is this real? Tension rising, would it be appropriate to scream for help now? "Hush!" I didn't hear a voice saying it, but I can feel it being said. Shy heavenly chimes of small comforting bells toll as a white glitter falls from above my head. I look up to a little delightful star, it lifts my mind, I regain a much needed feeling of sanity. It feels completing, harmonious, a missing part of my soul. "Not yet" says the voice, the words vibrated behind my eyes, so I closed them to enjoy it. The light over my head sinks into me and I rest assured that everything will be fine. I curl up in mid air, embraced by the wings, like warm hands folding around me until a become a cocoon. A soft hand is caressing my face "Hush, this is only the beginning" I fell asleep as the soft comforting palm brushed my cheeks.

"I want to show you something" Said a kid's voice. All of a sudden I found myself in a city made out of cardboard. The walls where blue and pastel purple, with orange light coming from the inside the windows. It looked like something out of sesame street. "I have a very cool idea" he said, as we both sat on the roof of one of the buildings, with our feet dangling in the air. He pointed up in the sky, a yellow plane was flying there and we were immediately transported to sitting inside of it. "Tell me about your cool idea" I asked the child with playful curiosity. "If you want to become a millionaire, you can make crispbread, formed like an airplane and held together by sticky brown cheese." He created his invention out of thin air, so I could see what it would look like. "Is that something you would want to eat?" I asked him, this time with genuine curiosity. "Only if I was on an airplane, it would be good as airplane food." He said, and the crispbread airplane was wrapped inside a neat little cardboard box. "Well, I thought kids on airplanes wanted chocolate" I suggested. "No, that is just what adults give us because they don't know any better, this is my invention, if you want to you can have it" He said and offered me the box. "Well, that is a really cool idea, why not just do it yourself?" I asked. "I can't anymore because I'm leaving" He said. "You look a little too young to be leaving" I politely told him. "Yeah, but its okay because sometimes I get to visit mom and dad when they dream so they don't get too sad." I said nothing, suddenly we were back in the cardboard city again. "I have some friends who wants to come over, but they can't get on the boat. Will you help them, since I gave you my idea?" He asked me. I smiled to him "Of course" and as it all seemed to make sense, I was blown away by a stream of white clouds.

As the clouds evaporated I found myself flying above a busy twilight harbor. The old city surrounding it had a tint of light beige, as if it was from an aged photograph. The golden bell from the steamboat kept calling, as old people, some of them were women wearing black widow dresses with a feathered hat, where boarding the boat in a thick queue. My attention caught the sight of a group of five kids standing together on the harbor, looking to the deck above them. I could tell that they wanted to board the ship, but were unable to, because the boarding had ended, and the people already standing in line would be the last ones to board. "Look, a dreamer!" They said and pointed up at me, as I landed right next to them. "We tried to board the ship, but the policeman wouldn't let us" One of them explained. "No worries, I'll just fly you all on top of the deck myself" I said, then I carried them aboard one by one. I could fly easily, so I simply flew them atop of the boat, where the light in the distance shined upon us like a sunrise, the waters reflected its beauty up from the waves. I pointed into the bright loving sun "thats where we're headed".

As I counted them something just didn't feel quite right "Are we one short?" I asked them. "Sebastian didn't want to come because he didn't have the right shirt." said the littlest girl, all of the kids had white shirts with pink ties. Somehow I was given memories of Sebastian, whom I had never met, how small things like forgetting his shirt would bother him, how he sometimes didn't feel worthy, and how he really wanted to have a white shirt with a pink tie, like everyone else. Especially when he was going on his journey with the boat. I looked ashore and saw him there on land, a handsome young lad, his facial expression was that of someone in the process of accepting getting left behind. I flew down to him "What are you doing here? I know you're dying to leave, don't you wanna go now with your friends?" I asked him. "I don't have the right shirt. I forgot to bring my white shirt and pink tie." He said, I sighed in frustration as I rushed inside of a nearby shop. Something inside of me just knew there was no point in trying to negotiate with him, it was really important that he had the right shirt and tie.

I hurried over to the corner where they had their white shirts with pink ties. They had two shirts left, one was size large and the other was size 39. I figured size large would be a bit baggy, but the collar would fit nicely around Sebastians neck. However, I would prefer a size 39, as it would be more well fitted and I was okay with not wearing the tie. On the other hand, perhaps Sebastian would rather wear the tie with a more baggy shirt? Or, would he just keep the top button open and wear it with the smaller shirt? What is better? A shirt that is a little too small, or a shirt that is a little bit too big? This was going to be Sebastian's great travel, I didn't want to ruin it with getting him the wrong shirt. I knew how important having the right shirt was to feeling comfortable for him, but what he didn't consider was how much fun he would have when he traveled together with his friends and how that would make the journey even more enjoyable than having the right shirt. As I stressed and over-analyzed, I felt the world's pull on me release itself. I drifted back into wherever I was. And I remembered that I was sleeping in my bed, I remembered how hard it was to go back here once I had woken up there. I wouldn't be able to help Sebastian board the ship, I should have just picked a shirt and gotten the kid aboard. "I'm so sorry" I said. "It's okay, it wasn't his time yet" I heard a voice say. "It could have been if I didn't mess up." I nagged as my vision started to fade into the blackness of my closed eyelids.