2. The Rhythm of Rain, Chaos

I’m 22. I haven’t done much with my life but I do not complain. These days when you meet someone new they’d like to imagine that you might be the most interesting person they’ll meet. Then they are disappointed and they wonder when such character will show. In such occasions, I would easily fit into the category of the “extremely uninteresting”, and phrases such as “I haven’t done much with my life” can be used often to nullify anyone’s fragile hopes. I’d like to imagine a world where people don’t have to spend so much time worrying about making “proper” impressions to gratify the prejudgments of others. I’d like that.

More people make their way into the cafe, wet from liquid pest. They look uneasy, but compose themselves momentarily. The menu, they should order something for taking refuge in this haven. Besides, they’d want that venti sugar-free non-fat vanilla soy double shot decaf no foam extra hot peppermint white chocolate mocha with light whip and extra syrup. Oh, and cinnamon powder...please.

I’ve conjured a plan. Not really a plan, more like a thought really. I need to do something...about my father. Things needs to be known... How does one go about to reprogramming mindless robot slaves? Perhaps the TV first... In any sense, something must be done. He is no more my father than that of my toothbrush. Yes, he raised me. Why? Well, killing me was out of the question I presume, what other alternatives are left? I haven’t seen him for nearly a year now, and I feel nothing. Our relationship was never...formal. And I need some kind of answer...to this...question? I need the long awaited green light so I can speed forward towards nothingness, I need the clamp to remove the aching tooth once and for all. I need the slap in the face.

The rain dance atop my umbrella. The sound...neutralizing those of burning gasoline and petty chatter. For a second my mind is empty, a random moment of uncontaminated bliss... The scent...the gleam...the emptiness...

Then the sight of a familiar intersection, a familiar building, and the recollection of my home, a contaminated corner of trivial existence. The divided planet, up for grabs for those who can point and shoot. The great cities, built upon the backs of the unfortunate. And me. I am born from the womb of a woman I never knew. I am a virus. I feed off society. The abundance of hope, where everyone has a chance, the brightly lit future of tomorrow. Civilization is my host. The passerby is dumbfounded by the blinding light of hope, he raises his arm above his eyes to have a better look. The light above the commoner casts a deep shadow behind him, stretching towards oblivion and etching despair, the complete lack of hope. Then the light explodes...

By sunrise, I shall have a real plan.


Être continué...