BELOW THE LINES

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The truth is rarely pure and is never simple – Oscar Wilde

It all came to me, in its fast rhythmic sway like the wind. All it took was a little boy, with his worn out shirt and kind eyes. Then I remembered life. Children seem to have that effect on me, the glimmer of life in its most simplistic form. Maybe I think of innocence when I hold a child in my arms, but my mind is never an innocent place. So once again I might be wrong, very wrong. But then I end up considering the opposite…Death. I’m full of memories, some have me shivering when I think of them, I know they will never go away. Like the windy night in high school, when I’m asleep on my bed, till I hear the boy beside my bed gasping for air. Everybody jumped up at the sound of my screaming, they jumped to the inevitable silence. The cold corpse of the boy was taken away. The night never goes away; it stays with me till the sun comes up.

Everybody runs from the truth. The truth isn’t such a bad place, although it’s dressed in a bad way. The truth reminds me of the strict head teacher, the bald headed, dry skinned man that sent two girls away for looking for their erasers underneath their pants. He kept ranting, with emphasis on the word “Abomination”. Some weeks later they found the old man with the science mistress on his desk. Same desk that had seen so many dismissal letters, and listened as people begged for forgiveness. Bottom line is…. The truth is a bitch. The kind of bitch that’s scared nobody will find her attractive enough for the night. Yet we should listen to it, the bitch never lies.

Have you shared a conversation with a hooker? Not the loud screams as you smack whatever your hand comes across. Not that. Have you asked her for her name, if you haven’t then you could never ask her what she thinks you should do with your life?(does it sound crazy?) Well, guess what….. I have. Her words spiraled my imaginations. I listened and listened. Ended up handing her all the money in my wallet. Do you think I’m deranged? But I discovered the truth in that stuffy room that stank of sex. The hooker saved me. I found solution few meters away from cheap bottles of alcohol, and a basket loaded with used condoms.

Now, the hooker, the headmaster, the girls, you and i will remember the truth. It’s perhaps the most unwelcome visitor. A very unattractive bitch indeed, but she will come. Has she told you about death yet? About coffins and the soft cushions within it? It shouldn’t scare you my friend. A mind that doesn’t think of death can never achieve. It reminds us that we are not super humans, we never were. It tells us how much good we need to do while we can. A man that grips to life alone will definitely be reckless, selfish and dishonest.

Finally,

This piece is purely fictional. But death isn’t.

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