I’ve let myself down.

I whole-heartedly screamed “I’ll never give up”

I turned

and I got swallowed in the grey world around me.

The prophecy of a secret garden no longer holds

and before I encrypt this message

I’d like to recreate that certainty I often acquire when writing.

Before I lose it forever again, I’d like to know again, if only for a brief moment the meaning.

I live a half-life. Somehow only my body has managed to survive. My mind refuses to believe in the essence of the soul, it goes against reason and the dogma of self-loathing and masochism –and we simply can’t have that.

The state of the tool is trivial, it can run on low quality fuel, as long as it works, walks and shuffles through life until it ends.

But what then? What’s the point, if the end offers a mystifying, magical concept, so much so that life pales in comparison –death seems almost beautiful. The colour that is death, the absence of colour to some, seems sweeter than the million shades of grey that life is.

“There is another world,

there is a better world,

oh there must be.”

I could let go, but I hold on to the possibility of magic.

Some possibilities are inconceivable: true, lasting, unconditional love; selflessness; the existence of God.

The part of me that hasn’t relinquished to total decay and to the absence of human consciousness (perhaps, the pinky?) holds onto the notion, the possibility, the dream of a better place, of magical concepts like destiny, heroism, greatness.

Those things we imagine out of proportions when we tag them to the mysterious faces of our idols. Suddenly, their suffering, their turmoil and achievement is no longer of human proportions. They’re simply untouchable.

I can’t place the magic, not in the hands or hearts of people. Where does music come from? It can’t come from the fingers of a mere mortal, it can’t be formed on paper or in the mind of a prodigious person. Its source is divine.

Who said the beauty of the human spirit is in its contradiction? So is the ugliness.

Lyrics are misguided, they can freely describe ludicrous feelings of fleeting infatuation, clichéd analogies and hyperboles attempting to recount hormonally induced emotions, or the most primitive desire, disguised with clever euphemisms for the mere act of fucking. But melody… melody is untainted. It remains universal, transcendent of both sadness, nostalgia, hope, faith, inspiration and joy.

I don’t understand art, not do I care for it. My talent for drawing is wasted in my hands.

I understand the technical necessity of language and how it can be creatively manipulated to both expel an emotion and to induce it.

But music is beyond me. And except for admiration and love for the instruments that produce it, I rarely feel the same reverence for the humans “responsible” for its melodic composition. I prefer to remain in the dark when it comes to lyrics, artists, their appearance, their characters. I selfishly long for their voices and melodies to be mine and mine alone, to tell stories of my sadness and to comfort me with hope. I only love music sang in languages I don’t understand.

The only thing that can be truly flawless is music. It’s enough for me to hold on to this stark existence, even living in a grey world that’s inhabited by lowly humans that overpower beauty with imperfection, selfishness, hate, war and destruction. I can’t love myself because I hate them. I am one of them, therefore I hate myself.

I can’t afford myself luxuries like happiness and self-fulfilment, not to mention living in the ecstasy of music.

I keep getting stuck. My body and mind are in complete conflict. Without the soul, a mediating factor, they will continue fighting for control. The body wishes to survive, it even desires to thrive; my mind sees no point.

“Flush it all down, ma, please flush it all away”

I can’t find a purpose. I don’t have a good enough “why” to explain my need to exist. Living for the sake of survival, for the sake of reproduction and continuation of this destructive, lowly species, for the daily pleasure of feeding and fucking, is that enough?

According to my findings: there must be another force that drives us to live.

It isn’t love, or the misconception that you are in love. When I was “in love” I still wanted to die.

It isn’t the pursuit of happiness, especially when you’ve discovered happiness lies in ignorance and that it isn’t achievable through the predictable means (money, friends, love, success, attractiveness and health).

Is it optimism? I’d rather live in bitter reality than be happy and delusional.

Hold on,

The Secret Garden.

The superb capability of the mind to produce its reality, either in perception of the external world or in the total surrender to an alternate, imagined reality.

I’ve done both, and though happiness can be experienced, its effect dissipates and is quickly replaced with bitterness once you realize your body still lives in the grey world you’re trying to escape.

I’m out of ideas.

Until I find a reason, I anticipate many days, weeks, months, years of half-living.

“Excuse me, I apologize. It seems to last for hours, it seems to last for days.”

But I still believe in music.

“it’s easier to believe

in this sweet madness

oh this glorious sadness

that brings me to my knees.”

Youve never had it so you hesitate to try and find it
You listen carefully for whispers of what lurks behind it
You play the corners
Never get too close to where it might be
Waiting for you
Never had it
Keep on wanting something more

Keep hiding the hope and than the pain is not yours
No ones holding a rope gotta pull up on your own.
All the songs have been sung
And all the doors have be closed
Keep on wanting more.

I watch you wander through these halls
You slouch you shrug you shrink away
I call you stop you blink you pause
You wander who
You think the day
Will never end
But when it does
You stay until the building’s dark
You’re on the bus
The doors are locked
You looked inside
But did not touch

Youve never had it
But you know how to provide it so you
Stand up and call for it
Nervous describing what you go through
You dont wanna get caught up in all the
Things they say to try to provoke you
Dont need anyone to tell you
Keep on wanting something more

because I am the anomaly
and its on the tip of my tongue
the revelation

I want to want to live
why
cant I
why hold on, to people and old memories?

if its not by force and structure how then
by love?
I cannot fake this love
and i cannot attain it

validation
I want to know
that I’m not forgotten
whose job is it to remind me?
to remember me?
all my life I’ve been so fleeting
nor here nor there
alon(e)
in translation
in the the corner
in transit
away
never there
absent
absent minded

its cold outside
its colder in

a kindred spirit
or perfection
its a valid quest
especially since none of it matters

how can i believe in love when i don’t have any idea how to feel it?
why would anyone love me if I’m so disgustingly unlovable.

everything is wrong
imperfect
blemished

no blame for running away
this is the breaking point
I will create you
I will make god
especially for me
it’s the only way

i will draw a beautiful morning with you

and suddenly every piece falls into place
[this message is in code]
a secret that’s the rest of the silent world is undeserving of

suddenly i understand every song
and its about me

and i will make you
i now what to do
wonderland will be resurrected, and as its rightful owner will be the queen.

Do I really want to let go? I’m stuck in the past, idolizing a faded image of myself and resorting to old destructive behaviours. I see no future and I hate the past. I want to escape somewhere and let my mind drift to the solitary scenery of imagines forests and farmlands.

Bliss: Reality never fairs well in comparison to my mind’s cartooned wonderland where music fills the air, where the colours are lurid and there’s love in every flower.

I don’t understand happiness in this bleak reality. I don’t believe in love, I believe in loveless love making. There’s lust and there’s friendship, there’s a parent’s obligation.
The only magic and ecstasy I have ever felt had nothing to do with people. Why would I find a need for them? Why would I feel an inclination to socialize? To love? To care? My world is better without humans. My friends are holograms and ideals. They would never exist in the real world. They would be ravaged by senseless evil and injustice, they would be sacrificed for the greater good. To survive they’ll have to (d)evolve, to become imperfect.

People, however, serve a purpose. People make sex, intelligent interaction, laughter, music possible. Their fingers are instruments. Their minds conjure innovation. They’re tools to satisfy the needs of a greater mechanism. (Maybe nature, in all its glory, enjoys music.) Their voices are vessels for the miracle that makes this grey rock worth-while. If only they could exist without the ugly shell that is the human psyche…  vanity, judgement, ignorance, rigidity makes humans the lowest and the most ungrateful of animals. And I don’t blame mother nature for her calculated revenge. Humans must die periodically, millions of them, for the sins of humanity through a random lottery.

Would I give into the sweet release of death?…

I am a fallen angel, unable to assimilate into the greyness that this world is… Broken, my memories cruelly taken from me and all I have are these visions of love, laughter and music… elsewhere. These things cannot be found on earth. Would death bring me to this beautiful world, the world of my dreams?

All of us are fated to die alone, misunderstood.

[Am I in heaven here or am I in hell? At the crossroad I stand.]

What is my purpose here and will I ever find it? Have I volunteered to lead this life or was I meant to overcome it? Is there such a thing as “living wrong”? I seem to miss things that I’ve never seen before. I feel like I don’t belong, so I drown myself in the only remnants of heaven I possess –angel voices and momentary ecstasy, imagining a world that only exists for me.

There’s a reason heaven reclaimed angelic voices, like that of Jeff Buckley. The earth only deserves a glimpse of what could be.

At least now I know why I have failed before. I try to achieve something dictated by a foreign, solemn force. What I lack is something I’ve had all along. It was buried deep inside me.

Life, an ordeal, is a journey through the atrocities that make the city of Oz. What you found at the end of it is the thing you had all along.

Would being thinner make you happier? Would you be worth more if you were prettier? Do you need money to live and be happy? Do you need to be recognized to have talent? Must you wear your personality on your sleeve? Do you need to reduce yourself to be understood? Do the opinions of others define who you are? Are you intelligent, but is it only in comparison?

The truth is you are born completely alone and you die completely alone. Everything you must face, you will always face alone. All your decisions are yours, your choices and mistakes are yours and the world is entirely in your hands. You choose who gets to live in it, and you choose when it ends. The brief appearances of secondary characters are dramatic interruptions are necessary and unpleasant. That’s why their importance is fleeting…

It’s the angel voices you get attached to, the imaginary characters that you fall in love with, the beauty that exceeds the ugly creation that is humanity. Any sunset exceeds the beauty of an imperfect shell, tailored to the wiles of society. The pained swish of the sea, the smell of rain, the eternity of sound have no comparison to the disposable nature of people.

My depression stems from this: I am bound to the laws of Suck City. I must play by the rules until I have the autonomy to create the perfect world or reunite with it in my death. My realization is this: I must pay my dues to the glorious mechanism which yielded me. For whatever ridiculous reason, it felt inclined to create me –I have significance, mysterious though it is to myself. Each day that I survived my significance was reinforced. I was reared and bred for twenty years, I was awarded consciousness and the skill to write, listen and understand. I must find my purpose and I must live it, until I’ve served it and I turn to the nothingness from which I came from.

Whatever created me wasn’t society. Whatever reared me wasn’t environment. Whatever guaranteed my safety wasn’t my family.

To reach a godlike quality –perfection, one must overcome the greatest flaw–humanity.

Your body is sanctuary. You were born perfect. Your needs are the only ones that deserve to be satisfied. Your world dies with you. Why should you fear? Why should you compromise your individuality? You are law. You come above all others. You are God.

Inhibition, fear and submissiveness are self-destructive and diminishing. The only humans we worship are those who are fearless, confident and selfish. And that is the only God that is fit to rule this world. Your world already has a God –it is you, therefore you do not need to search for perfection elsewhere.
Shhh…. sleep tonight with dreams as sweet as angel’s wings.And all your dreams will bring you sweeter things.Oh, sweet thing, don’t you wish?

My weakness is prevalent and spiteful.
I repeat old mistakes like a stuttering record. I only have myself to blame for willingly and lazily depreciating my own powers. I resort to the comfort of nothingness and anonymity. These are just thoughts few of many, and they will mean nothing weeks from now. These words will lose meaning and my lack of action will leave me barren.
I’m stuck in an ironic loop. I repeat the same rehearsed role, I don’t evolve and therefore I decay.
In shutting myself out I finally taste the bitterness of solitude.
I hide behind reality, but fiction has no secrets.
My deepest fears and desires are played out, in that ironic loop.
The loop. The loop. It repeats and overpowers.

This void that could only be filled by a perfect soul-mate is a distant dream. It’s conception by a realist is laughable… but the possibility exists, it hasn’t been disproved.

The music numbs the fears again. It whippers: the existence of a nirvana is only possible in a utopia, along with other discarded ideals. And to the land of broken dreams that live on, I’ll go.
I’ll curl up in the arms of a profound angel, shrouded with romantic mystery and poetic aestheticism.
My heaven will prosper in ruins.

On the back of a carton coaster
In the blue TV screen light
I drew a map of Canada
Oh Canada
With your face sketched on it twice

Oh you’re in my blood like holy wine
You taste so bitter and so sweet
Oh I could drink a case of you darling
And I would still be on my feet
Oh I would still be on my feet

Oh I am a lonely painter
I live in a box of paints
I’m frightened by the devil
And I’m drawn to those ones that ain’t afraid
I remember that time that you told me, you said
Love is touching souls
Surely you touched mine
Cause part of you pours out of me
In these lines from time to time

Oh you’re in my blood like holy wine
You taste so bitter and so sweet
Oh I could drink a case of you darling
Still I’d be on my feet
I would still be on my feet

I met a woman
She had a mouth like yours
She knew your life
She knew your devils and your deeds
And she said
Go to him, stay with him if you can
But be prepared to bleed

Oh but you are in my blood you’re my holy wine
You’re so bitter, bitter and so sweet
Oh I could drink a case of you darling
Still I’d be on my feet
I would still be on my feet

Suddenly…

The slow change is awakening from the ground and spreading from the roots.
I’m getting to the bottom of this and I’m letting myself be lead blindly.
This time, however, I am confident.
Because if you have no particular place in mind, any road will get you there.
And I’m ready, I’m armed with charm, wit and a nice ass.

Why do I let myself be swallowed in this universal hate?
Why do I go against my own nature and try to blend in?
I only feel loved when sound envelopes me like a velvet blanket.
One of those, fuzzy, electric ones that vibrate with warmth.

It certainly evokes something in me no person can.

I regret for ever for neglecting, in my ignorance, the things I love most.
I repress my talents because I’m a rigid monogamist, even when it comes to art.
I would let myself be consumed in love for a single art.
I would give it my all.

But I’m afraid?

Ah, it’s wonderful to be misunderstood! To yell to the world words that mean nothing!

We’re preached of a unified world, that of peace and a solitary existence. We’re all matter that attracts and expresses itself in mysteries only nature can decipher.
But who says I want to be as one?
I embrace my solitude, which has a negative connotation to other but to me it’s the sweetest sanctuary. I embrace my right for individuality. I reject reality and its imposition on my imagination!

I need nothing more.

“Don’t forgot the songs that made you smile,
And the songs that saved your life.
Yes, you’re older now,
And you’re a clever swine,
But they were the only ones who ever stood by you.”

My friends are the voices. Raspy, hesitant, beautiful, soulful, strong. The rhythms, climbing, slow, steady, nostalgic. The lyrics, sweet poetry that expresses the most beautiful of feelings. My friends are the golden leaves that dance in the wind, the trees that rustle as I walk by, the birds that get me out of bed, begrudgingly, the sunshine and the fresh rain, and nothing more.
I need nothing else.

“If music be the food of love, play on,
Give me excess of it; that surfeiting,
The appetite may sicken, and so die.”

I have died a thousand deaths and I’ve lived ones more to hear it again. For it alone, I would live a life of misery, writing love songs in the dark to proclaim its name.

Art can only be expressed in art, any intention to describe a feeling so inexplicable–the catharsis art creates–is in vain. Express your love, your catharsis in art, as Bloom says.
For art opens a doorway to the only world that could be beautiful, the only one that can be magical and full of love and the only one that justifies the title ‘utopia’.

And so it began. A noble inspiration for a humble cause.
I’m not sure where I stand but I’ve made sure I stand on my own.
Now where to find this love, this passion outside my sanctuary?
Perhaps this is my quest.

“And when you’re dancing and laughing and finally living
Hear my voice in your head and think of me kindly.”

The pursuit, happiness and love will forever be credited to art and music.

And it’s been a while, so long I have forgotten how.

It’s hard to express myself now because I’ve let myself drown in the simplicities of life, forgetting that the core of my existence has always stemmed from my mind’s eye and the imaginary world it created.

Randomique in wonderland no more.

Have I forgotten it?

Is it calling me back?

It must be if I’ve managed to force a coherent train of thought to form, somehow.

What solicited this long forgotten 5$ philosophy was the lowest of the low, the most shallow of plots, the most linear story… I write when I’m provoked. I write best during numbing pain caused by a bruised ego or a tattered heart.

It’s no longer bearable on my own, without its impossible beauty. Yet, I came back to Wonderland for the solitude it offered.

I can’t stand reality, it wounds me with its routine of horrors. Every news story is yet another reminder of this world’s imperfections.

What can be worse than to be trapped in such a world?

I can’t help but run as fast my legs can take me, as far as possible, while this world grows smaller, people become nothing but dots and abstract lines, events are nothing but painful, yet distant reminders… this world shrivels up and dies.

The phoenix that emerges from the ashes is my creation of solitude and music. Pure perfection filled with colour and character, drama and wealth… all of my stories end well, even if I get carried away.

Am I rejected? Not pure enough? Spoiled by my own quests for shallowness?

Wonderland soon fades into a distant song; all dissipates around me and I can no longer hold on and merge with it.

It’s no longer mine to control, the Goddess has become the outcast.

There they are, my loyal friends and subjects, they stare at me sadly as they evaporate one by one… their names are distant tastes on my lips, their loving embrace is too weak to arouse my senses…

Are they the ones who dissipate or is it me?

I just want to say this…..

And the violins cue in.

Must I yell?

My mind has clouded my beautiful Wonderland.

The music is no longer pleasant, it’s takes the form, the sound, of broken glass.

Can I bring it back to life?

I dare you to move, Wonderland.

Can I save it from myself?

Can it save me from drowning, shrivelling up and dying with the rest of the world I came from?

But why must I go back? Can I stay here forever?

Why not?

It used to be so easy as a child, everything would cease to exist at once,

Oh how I burned with silly passions…

Did I let myself grow up when I promised I wouldn’t?

But did I grow old?…

All the things I promised myself, all the deadlines I didn’t make… I stand before my judge, myself, and every day is judgement day, every day I fail… the next I try and I begin the journey towards perfection all over again.

I’ve forgotten what it’s like to enjoy or live it, it’s the fear, the time is running and I think of all the things I haven’t done and all the people I haven’t been…

I wait on the past, but the past is long gone…

Maybe it’s not Wonderland that needs the help,

but maybe I feel a little silly playing pretend at 21?…

How can I detach myself from all these realistic notions so that I can fly to the sky with a pair of balloons?

It’s sad, the only answers I can find are more rules, more restrictions, harder work… what have I become? I miss my lazy innocence… I miss when the world offered possibilities and not sadness……

This adult reasoning is dirt that won’t come off, no matter how hard I try to keep my new dress in its pretty blue state. Every day is the same, every dream is the same- I never get it right.

I’m never good enough.

I’ve always settled, no matter what I do.

I settle beforehand not to be disappointed.

Sweet words of friends and lovers are no longer encouraging, but are scornful and teasing. Their votes of confidence feel like lies.

Every day I wash myself and can’t help but feel dirty again, like I’ve missed a spot… Like I’m doing something wrong, any turn is just me going backwards from the spot where I’m supposed to be at.

The crowning of the success story will have to wait one more day… as I figure out once more what I love, and run from it.

It’s so hard, it is so hard. I will focus on something harder instead, because realizing your dreams can be risky… if you fail, you’re heart broken, you’re a failure and I am too old for this, too old at the ripe age of 21 to figure it out… I should have been Mozzart by the age of 8.

I’ll lie here instead, curled up on the blue grass fields of Wonderland and try to breathe…

Try to breathe… myself and Wonderland to life…

With every song, with every breath a little bit of soul will come out.

I thought it over, right before I went to sleep. I mulled over how I would address my current state and the problems that create this sticky plateau. I thought of the best ways to blame circumstances and people for this immobility and how I would deflect the blame from myself.

That was yesterday, and today I have nothing to say.

I am staring in the face of some imaginary universe, bewildered. I stutter, I mumble, I fall.

And that’s exactly how I feel – I’m falling short and I’m falling deep, and even music hasn’t been able to scoop me from underground.

It’s easy to talk in riddles and metaphors without saying anything but that is precisely how I feel.

Like an unfathomable paradox, a Jester whose only purpose is to amuse; when I fail to entertain and I’m discarded I stare: empty, misunderstood and poised for my next chance to impress.

But the show must go on. Even if I’ve stopped completely.

Even if I’m going backwards and deteriorating.

Somehow I’m lonelier the more I surround myself with others.

I am angry over unspoken words, absent deeds. ‘Lack’ shouldn’t affect me as much as it does. But it does. Oh, it does. Because I live in void, lack and absence; I plot my nest in emptiness. The shell is all I’m concerned with, not the essence.

Still I search for that essence that will complete me, for that spirit that will inspire me… Where should I look for it?

– Not within myself.

Another part of me, wishes to intervene: it wishes to brush the melancholy away and nestle this broken, angry bird that is my spirit. It wishes to nurture me with love, but is it too late? Is it too late to fix something that’s no longer broken? It’s not the plateaux, it’s not the circumstances, the people – or the lack of  them - it’s the absence of these problems that brings me to a halt. Traces of what once was, like distant lights from dead stars, flicker and their remnants leave me incapacitated.

Even if they don’t exist I find it necessary to invent them. I find new ways to torture myself, I find new excuses and ways to deflect the blame from me. I’ve fed myself on loneliness for so long, how can I be happy with being happy?

I hate you.

I hate everyone.

You hate me.

Everyone hates me.

I hate… myself.

– I love myself.

I love myself to the point that I’ve made it my life’s purpose to prevent myself from getting hurt. I prepare myself emotionally for disappointment, for anger, for loneliness, for lack – so that I’m never surprised by it again. So that I’m always safe in anger, hate and loneliness. I hold onto my old problems so that I don’t have to deal with new ones.

I’m safe.

But I expect someone else to shake me to the core and throw my anxieties out the window. It’s funny isn’t it? Expecting the unexpected which will never happen? No one can do what I can’t do for myself. And those I hate for disappointing me, ignoring me, not understanding or comforting me can never succeed at something they aren’t meant to do.

But I suppose it’s human nature to spend life searching for someone else to solve your problems. Prince charming, someone beautiful, someone you’re worthy of… but why would they settle for you?

One of the readers even asked me if I was happy with my life and it sounded like he was about to give me the number for the Suicide Hot Line.

Well, first of all, yes I am content with my life, thank you for your interest. And second of all, a lot of you don’t realize that when I don’t write profound thoughts to an imaginary audience I lead a real life, in which I act like a 10 years old 90% of the time.

I throw tantrums, I play pranks, I do silly little dances in my cubicle and one of my favorite ways of spending my lunch hour is people watching.

Oooh, Randomique, you lead such an exciting life!- you might say, sarcastically. But before you judge, think about this: would you be reading this blog if YOU were leading exciting lives? No, I didn’t think so.

And as a matter of fact, people watching can be very fun.

The other day I saw a tall businessman on a bicycle, he had thick square glasses – the type serial rapists have on “Wanted” ads – and he was eating a sandwich with one hand and awkwardly maneuvering the bike with the other. He also had this demented smile on him (since he was clearly too busy to eat tuna on regular days and this was an exception) and all the while he had mayo dripping on his tie and chin.

A smiling businessman on a bike might not seem amusing to everyone but my perverted mind works in such mysterious ways that the white, dripping mayonnaise around his lips made it so much more comically enticing; I couldn’t help but let my imagination run a marathon and I eventually started giggling like the 10-year-old girl I emotionally am.

I couldn’t help but laugh out loud as he rolled by like a fat kid on Christmas who got a giant cake made from… tuna. And since I have really bad social skills (as you can tell) I didn’t bother pretending the source of my amusement was anything other than the Tuna eating biker. I might have even pointed and yelled “GEE, LOOK AT THE UGLY DUDE ON THE BIKE!”.

Okay, so I didn’t yell and point, but I did laugh like a hyena in heat. The skittles in my lap rattled and spread on the ground and people looked around wondering if someone let a Capuchin monkey lose.

Alright, since we’ve grown rather fond of this businessman we might as well make it personal and call him… Harold!

Well, Harold threw an angry look at me and even twisted his neck to look behind him in search of the maniacal laughter.

Uh-oh, a lawyer!*

* The Lawyer is an angry beast from the underworld whose behavioral patterns often involve lecturing others grandeloquently about their insignificant role in society when compared to those defending murderers and sex offenders in the court of law. They are self-righteous, obnoxious and wear funny looking ties (often stained with mayo as it appears). They are likely bitter about the fact they’ve spent 8 years of their life in University, without having a social life and feel those who dress casually should pay for it with their brain cells.

I knew he was going to turn around and lecture me because it happened before. Lawyers have another favorite snack for lunch and it appears to be me. They lecture me in lines to the movies, at bus stations, at supermarkets (when I used to work in one) and in this case, when I laugh at them.

So Harold turns with a vengeance, his stained tie blowing in the wind like an antenna detecting 21-year-old, billing clerks. I knew he’s going to pull the Cop routine, where he self-importantly stops inches from my face and takes his time, with a grave demeanor, to get off the bike as he prepares to lecture me about working in McDonald’s for the rest of my life (even though I rarely eat there let alone work there). Lawyers assume that anyone who doesn’t wear a tie is likely to work for McDonald’s and according to this logic the entire corporate world is divided into law officials and McDonald’s workers.

He turns with a screech and does a little spin around the fountain, all the while staring me down with his angry, beady eyes. People snicker. I look like a puppy about to get executed. The closer he gets to the bench I’m lunching on the wider his sex offender smile gets.

Inches away from me he… begins to waddle. Still maneuvering one handedly he is unable to stabilize the bike; he looks on the ground on my army of darkness – the colorful skittles, viciously scattered around my bench, protecting me from the wrath of lawyers.

The next happens rather fast so I’ll spare you melodramatic description.

He looks down. He looks up. He is confused. He looks at me. I grin. He looks at his sandwich: should he throw it and spare himself embarrassment? No, it’s too darn good. He waddles again, afraid he’ll fall to the left, he leans to the right. And he falls like a beached fish who got a lethal heart-attack.

There is a momentary silence as all the lunching employees from the neighboring office buildings, gathered in little hierarchal groups stop their chatter and stare. The only sounds heard are that of chirping birds, intermittently passing cars and the water fountain.

I bite my lip down.

I grin.

I frown.

I smile widely, a smile full of teeth.

And I burst with my loud childish laughter for the next five minutes.

Suddenly aware of Harold scowling on the ground, I collect my belongings and I rise from the bench completely forgetting about the skittles in my lap (once again) and let them fall and scatter around Harold who’s still lying intertwined with his bike.

Feeling the hostility rise from the ground like poisonous gas I hasten my steps, but before I get too far I turn to Harold and I ask nonchalantly and probably insensitivity: “are you a lawyer?”

He just stares at me with immense hate and I take it as ‘yes’.

It happened a week ago and I haven’t seen Harold again even though I take my lunch on the same bench pretty much every day. I wonder if he’s too embarrassed to come back or if he even works around that park.

But sometimes I like to imagine, maybe out of masochism… I like to imagine and shudder at the possibility that somewhere, Harold is waiting for us to cross paths; with his glasses illuminated by a rusty street light, his horrible smile, bearing yellowish crowded teeth and his chin, dripping with mayo he is waiting for me in a dark, abandoned alley.

Boo.