–Sniff–

Sniff is very enthusiastic

About the prospects

Of growing rich

Without any effort,

He likes it.

His goal is to make

As much money as he can

Without the risk

Of losing his life.

Sounds fair, right?

…

Tomorrow might just be another day, but today is 9 am, the clock says so.

He pours himself a small liquid in a glass, very dramatic.

He does not intend to drink it, not after reading a book last night he found by chance, and by chance, I mean that it fell off a shelf, hit his head and it hurt quite a lot, though Sniff did not mind the pain.

— I've been through worse. – He said it very often to himself, so many times that he lost count.

One... When he forgot to drink water for three days.

Two... When his foot got stuck in tar.

Three... When he ran one mile in the forward direction instead of backwards.

Four... When he fell on a hole in the ground.

Five... It was a big hole, I swear.

Six... When he got lost in the woods.

Seven... That dreadful trial.

Eight... He could spend the entire day reminiscing about past failures, but that won't do him any good.

Nine... Yes, the book that fell on his head was really heavy.

It was not the first time he stumbled over nothing in the dark and hit something out of nowhere, which often led to an awful night of sleep, but that night was different from all of the nights that came before and it was not because of a sore thumb this time. Oh, no, it's just that, instead, it was one of those rare occasions when everything seems to be as it should be, but it isn't until something happens and then everything definitely changes after that specific point in time and space where things do seem to change for real. Was it an accident, a misfortune, the invisible hand of fate? It did not matter. It was painful, anyway, but something was different about it. A pain that did not quite hurt, yet it left something behind other than the meaning of hurt.

— Why should it matter? – Said Sniff, who held his breath but eventually had to release it, letting the air escape with just a little more of his energy, and perhaps a little bit of his soul too. He read in a book, not the currently he's been thinking of, but another book that commented about spirits being everywhere, in the plants, in the animals, within objects as well.

Spirits are the same things as souls, are they? Different words, of course, yet they had something in common. More on that later, I suppose. He had so many thoughts reserved for later, and when would that later be if a second ago became the past of the now he found himself trapped in?

— Don't worry, don't worry... It's not tomorrow yet. It won't be tomorrow soon. – He told himself twice. Two is better than one. When one can't stand by himself, two are stronger. However, when someone thinks, they only think to themselves, and when someone thinks for themselves instead of others, they only destroy themselves.

Sniff did not feel like destroying himself, whatever that meant in this context. Why destroy if it takes a lot of effort? Or better, what purpose was there to destroy if he was born to appreciate life and its elaborateness? Well, was he? Whoever had the answer... Or maybe no one had the answer. Perhaps someone had it, but who in this world would be kind enough to deliver an answer for free? Everything has a price, Sniff knew that. How much of himself has he sold for everyone else? How much did he pay for this house? How many breaths of his were wasted in a rush?

— Whatever. – He said, not knowing what else to say. Better be quiet, it was one of his many thoughts that he managed to sort out. – To be quiet is to be boring. Do others find me boring? Probably. Boredom, annoyance, it's all the same. Did I think about being quiet? Because I can't. No such a thing as absolute silence exists, it would drive anyone insane, but to rumble to myself can also have the same effect. Do others find me insane? Who knows... I don't.

He decided to quench his thirst with a sip of water, despite telling himself not to. It wasn't greed if he was the one who poured himself some water, and by acknowledging the importance of his own well-being, he knew what had to be done. With a breath, not just any breath, but a special kind of breath that provides some comfort after a stressful situation, Sniff felt like he had lost something other than air kept inside his lungs.

— I lost myself in my very breath. – He said, reaching a conclusion. Was it true? It could very well be. We all lose something as we live, why not include our very souls?

He thought deeply about it, but as he had other matters on his mind, Sniff decided to give more importance to the others. The book that fell on his head, as an example, belonged to a shelf with works arranged by "The", not "T", such as "The Three Musketeers", a must read according to Moominpappa. Other books belonging to the same shelf, some of them best-sellers or not, had titles such as "The Black Hit Of Space", "The Last Cherry Blossom", "The Dangerous Journey", "The Wages of Fear", "The Shape of Rage" (which, out of all books beginning with "The", terrified him the most), "The Black Rose and The Universal Wheel", "The Burning World", "The Happy Prince", "The Third Man" and the list goes on, almost forever if it weren't for the limitations of our material world.

Truth is, Sniff had quite a lot of books in his collection. Something to be proud of, if not a little. He had pride in his books like anything else he owned. "I own everything I own" was his mantra, as well as the name of chapter 21 from this book he's been thinking of lately, the one that fell on his head, it is called "The Swing of Things" and there was something written in it about feng shui, some very interesting stuff that he chose to leave for later because a sudden thought came into his head that had nothing to do with what he had been thinking for some time. It became hard to think about anything else but books!

So many novels, poems, encyclopedias, guides, maps, art books... Those were donations from other people, like his aunt. He wonders why there's a single picture of her hanging on the wall, together with some relatively unknown figures. Why did that feel odd, of all odd little things one could notice and point out how strange it was? Perhaps it was the realization that Sniff actually had some relatives, or people who looked like him but older, it could be both things or none of that. He did not talk with them very often, but his aunt was an exception.

— She's bound to a wheelchair and I fear the next thing she'll be bound to will be a coffin under the earth. – He said, very concerned. Aside from the "who will earn her inheritance" question that brought headaches for those who sought a clear answer, Sniff genuinely cared a lot about his aunt.

Others would think that, due to his recurring visits, he only had eyes for the old lady's wealth, but they were misunderstood. One of his goals is to make money, that's correct, but he doesn't want to depend on someone else's efforts, because what good is an achievement if you can't do it alone?

And how many times has he found himself dependent on others? When he thought he could stand on his own, but someone else puppeteered him at their will, told him to do this and do that as if he lacked the intelligence and emotional maturity to deal with anything?

His life, his choices, his feelings, his thoughts... All of that didn't matter.

If that's so, then why did Moominpappa donate some of his books? Because Sniff asked him to. Because he was interested in literacy. Because reading books made him feel safer, the words he reads on each page had the power to take him to a world where he is far removed from any problems, a world where he can reach the answer to things that bother him or would eventually lead to disaster, only for him to read that there is nothing to worry about. It's for this reason why "Blow Away Your Troubles" was one of his favorite reads. The title caught his attention, and by the time he found himself on page twenty, he knew he was in for a good time.

Moominpappa, a prolific writer in a sense that sometimes he wrote, sometimes he did not, but he was a writer nonetheless, or as he'd say, a storyteller by nature... His words came out so inspiring at times that Sniff wondered if he too could be a writer like him one day, and possibly make some money out of the gig.

Well, he tried.

So many ideas flowed in his head, and yet, he never found enough time or motivation to write an entire book beyond the drafts, only a few short stories published in the newspaper under the pseudonym "Nipsu". Initially, he chose "Sunifu", but knowing that his friends would recognize his name, the kind of recognition he didn't want, he changed his pen name to something less obvious, something his mother used to call him when he was a child, or so he seems to believe.

I mean, he had no option. His past looms like a distant fog in the woods, visible but never tangible, and if a man (or a Sniff, in this case) cannot believe in his own past, then he has no past at all. Yesterday is part of the past, although it's not the same as the forever out-of-reach past, to which Sniff can't do anything about but wonder how things used to be.

Maybe later, he has more important things to do.