Non classé, nonsense

Drastically cryptic

there wasn’t much to do
it was just the way it was supposed to be
in the end you think you’ve tried
perhaps once too many
well fuck that

He passed in front of those words everyday while going to work. They had been erased once before, he quickly jotted down the date on the notepad he carries around with him – Thursday the 4th. On that day, he remembered, how surprised he had been. The wall was just there, a great blank spot, dashing white bricks from top to bottom, and there he had been standing, looking. So much so, he’d turned out to be late to work. But screw that, he’d thought. That made him laugh.
Then the next day or so, or the day after that perhaps. It was there all over again. He couldn’t be bothered with drawing out the notebook this time, he was contemplating the words again. It was as if they had some sort of mystical power. He remained there and read and re-read again and again, and he tried to see if there was any difference. Everything was the same, each letter each syllable each memory. There wasn’t much to do. It was just written the way it was supposed to he’d thought. He went on with his day and with his life, but the words were a constant to which he would get drawn to on a regular basis.
And once again there he was. They were there too. Waiting for him perhaps. Or not. Nobody really was waiting for him, or no one that he was aware of anyway. You may say, there’s always someone somewhere waiting for. But other than people who expect something from you, there’s none. So bull, the joke’s on you.
He had a strange relationship with words, he thought. Not necessarily thinking about those ones. He had tried to be a writer, a poet, a writer of haiku, of short stories, songs, animes, comic books, reviews, cooking recipes, obituaries. In the end you think you’ve tried once too many, you think you’ve failed once too many. That was the problem with words. Empty. Or not really. Potential meanings never fully graspable to the many. You know what I mean? How in the world can someone write Fuck Kerouac and get sued for it? Or worse, censored for it? How in the world can someone record their own pathetical life on camera and sell it? Or worse, for a fucking serious load of money?
Well fuck that.
The rain came back. Dark thoughts never left. They sometimes play hide and seek, blown away at times and popping by when you’re sick, a 10 inches long thermometer shoved in your butt.
He sat down in front a of cup of coffe, waited a bit and some more after that. His eyelids showed him back to days where everything was fine and dandy. Another illusion of reality, nothing ever is fine and dandy, exaggeration is the beginning of the end. The world kept on turning, nobody cared and that was fine, really. Words came and went, always come and go. It was just the way it was supposed to be.


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