Written in blood one evening.

What would I tell the world if it asked me what happened today. What could I possibly tell. In fact, what could I tell the world about any of my days. It’s like everything is happening at once, and also nothing at all. There’s so much that when I sit down to write, I sometimes find nothing for a couple of paragraphs. It’s just two paragraphs of me trying to put down what happened. Sometimes, I fail to put it down in pages, not because I am unable to write, but because my head is just consumed with all sorts of things, and then there’s alcoholism. There’s also smoking now and then. There are many more things. Sometimes I feel I am running with a lot on my back. But whether or not I end up writing about what happened or didn’t happen, I always end up writing something. I have never found myself failing in that. What would I feel like if, one day, I fail in that. Shit. I can’t think about it right now.

Now is the time to relax and take it very slowly. Now is the time to sip my drink slowly. Now is the time to take long drags off my cigarette, keep the smoke in my mouth for long as I can, and then, finally, at the very end of the act, exhale. A slow, very slow exhalation, and after I have exhaled, I look up at the ceiling like it’s not the ceiling but the sky itself, and I look at it like I’m trying hard to find a few stars there, trying to find some brightness there. I am drunk and in the lap of music. I have been in that state on most of my evenings.

Right now, as I type, I am sitting with my back against the setting sun. My teeth are sour. My hair all messed up. My clothes are carrying the stench of a whole month gone bad. My drink is about to finish. The dizziness is building up all too slowly. There’s a song waiting to be played. It’s been there on my mind since I woke up this morning.

– Tomic Riter. © All rights reserved.


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