The night was tonight, October the 18th.
It didn’t have any sort of significance, just that it was today and it was night. Distant noise of people having a life on Thursday made its way through my ears, enough for me to register and use it as a background descriptor.
I noticed a small patch of land I loved to pass through as a kid. It’s yet again been restructured into someone else’s architectural project and our mayor’s persistant on destroying anything that’s left. They planted grass that was real and fake at the same time because it never tried, it was simply placed there and assumed a role.
My right thumb was tucked obsessively inside my fist, a tightness I had noticed because I’ve been aware of what a weirdo I am.
I knew that Australia had a prime Minister that had disappeared into the ocean one day when he went for a mysterious walk. My mother was surprised I knew of that but really… mom, has there ever been a fact so tailor-made for me to know?
Once upon a time, there was a short story which helped nobody, for not a single person could relate to it. Instead, it was the perfect activity for the writer to unwind and produce a stream of unconscious thoughts, perhaps to help out with the inner workings of said writer’s brain.
The short story helped because it was quite a boring day, one of those hot days when there was nothing to do but stare at walls, when even the breeze assaulted you with steaming air. The kind of day when the writer listened to casual ballads that would make Elton John proud. Even the uncomfortable chair made perfect sense.
The perils of supermarkets and walking in search of banks were long gone, for there were much better things to do than be human and socializing. The writer could smoke and breathe in peace in that blessed solitude of one’s self. Solitude was the best word, it sounded grandiose and superb despite the fact that people confused it with loneliness. Loneliness was solitude’s lesser twin, solitude was confident and badass, while loneliness was dependant, whiny and insecure. The writer had mastered solitude.
Now, as you, the reader ponders on these words of no context, do you feel a picture being painted? Is it safety? Heat means coziness and coziness bares likeness to the womb. Keep in mind that the writer cares not about the reader. No literary masterpiece cared about the reader, never forget that. The images being projected into your mind just show how talented the creator is at capturing moments and thoughts, organizing them into lines and sentences and paragraphs and pages. It’s funny how you can see things inside your brain without witnessing them in front of your very eyes.
What the writer meant was that the short story had been a metaphor all along. The writer had not yet learned how to use structure… and to be honest, it didn’t mean much. Following rules and caring about fluidity is overrated.
The true reason of the short story’s existence was finally revealed at last, for we’re reaching the end of this tale and at last, the story wouldn’t have been itself without you, someone to read it.