Tuesday, September 10, 2013

2074 : The angled tear

He remembered the night he had trudged back home with the trophy. He had won more than a mere contest, he had triumphed over his own personal devil.

As he neared the door, it occurred to him that unless he gave context, no one (at home), would ever understand why this contorted piece of dangled mild steel meant anything at all to him.

As he waited with the gleaming shiny chrome, on the outside, his hands aching to ring the door bell, the adrenaline of the early evening was draining out of him faster than air out of a leaky hot balloon.

His world outside was a carefully angled piece of steel, and inside it was a rambling chaos which had strangely begun to resemble the outside, but in a very disconcerting sort of way.

He walked two flights down....sat down against the first step, flicked open his bag and opened his box of mild cuts. As he lighted the first one - he stared vacuously through the patterns the smoke drew in front of him. The white blur wobbled its way, kissing the chrome in his right hand, and flying away, almost mocking him - saying, "I don't need any context"...."I am flying away as fast as the air can take me away from your next puff"...."because your next puff is going to be just as lazy as this one".....steel skeletons notwithstanding.

He smoked 4 more lights after this one. The whole meditation lasted twenty odd minutes. He then opened his backpack, put the chrome thingy in, pulled the house keys out....walked up the floors again....and this time went straight in, without the warning doorbell.

As he dropped the bag onto his bed, in a flash it came to him, - the irony that this trophy had now meant that there were two very unhappy souls hunting in a pack today.

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