October 9, 2013 by teleportingscribbler
In front of me, an old man holds a dying rose in his hands and a sad story in his blurry eyes. The grocery bags run through unknown hands at the sound of the cold and sick “bip” of the register and at the same time the silence drips from depressed faces, faces sucked dry by this shitty, marvelous, metropolis.
Now walking down the street, I feel suffocated by the thick, black, cloth above me, which no one here in the city even bothered to cut holes into, forming constellations and a glimpse of infinity. They’re all carrying the mule and the cart, nothing here is easy or natural.
My apartment is dark and empty; the keys don’t even tinkle anymore. With wet hands and a dirty apron, I peel a potato while on the TV a man talks just like the sirens wail on the other side of my broken window. Then, the floorboards creak and I begin to cry. Despair is like an empty white room.
What the fuck was yesterday?
What the fuck is today?
And most importantly what is tomorrow going to be?
Yesterday was a pine tree, wind and the sea breeze. Yesterday was a smell, a person I used to know.
Today doesn’t exist and tomorrow is nothing but a bloody knife dropped on my floor followed by a silent “thump”.