A cloudy evening – Short fiction


Character, that’s what I needed to gather all of the bits of consciousness that seemed beyond my reach, there was a slight wind blowing, and the trees occasionally shivered with the gasps of wind, there was a storm coming. The skies were gray, a crow and an eagle swooped in pants, they were rivals, they battled for the rights to swoop in the skies, the crow inched closer and closer but the eagle’s flight was too powerful to give in to the more paddled style of flight of the crow, words belonged to me, but I trembled and I gasped for I was out of meaning, I was like a fish out of the pool. The fresh blue of the upper pool was covered with enormous grey clouds, but I was being possessed by all forms and sorts of feelings as I took in the rain kissed wind, there was something subtly cool and rapidly fresh about the wind, I was reminded of tea leaves drenched and wet, I was reminded of the foamy sea with its syrupy possessed waves, broken, incarnate and eternal.

The interiors of my house appeared to me like the dark blind insides of a skull, I observed the true doctrine of life in all its evangelized servants, wondering whatever it was that they knew that I didn’t. For they seemed unpretentious in their postures, in their hidden repressed anger, in that hardened sense of all adult consciousness with its lack of trapdoors and hidden windows, As always there was too little to feast one’s mind upon, the days of my loneliness now equal almost a month or two, i’m not sure, I have lost my interest in the days, they all appear the same to me. I had subdued rage, and I excessively used Jazz music, that ungrammatical flow of beats, rhythms and blares bored deeper and deeper into me, emptying my ever flustered and rattled consciousness. I sought peace obsessively, for I had all the frantic energy of a restless struggling artiste’ who was yet to uncover his true motif. I was bothered by my excessive normality, my thoughts desired a great deal of spontaneity, and I was tired of using small trickles to feed my gluttonous grandiose imaginations.

I was constantly drawn back to the city, I know that I harbored a deep resentment to its particular nature of reality, to the almost flat, uninspired terrain, and the unsymmetrical swamps of filth, of garbage, of pollution, of architectural overhaul for future attractions that opened up the roads and laid bare and naked the flesh below, I felt that the endless clinically sterile buildings with their infertile nuances of dominion bothered me, but I was drawn to my abode deep in the city, the one that I had run away from. I longed for it all day, I hid my secret longings deep deep in my heart, for not many took the time to understand my dreams. The town was a universe all its own, the controlling powers of the Matriarchs and the Patriarchs reigned supreme in the deep recesses of the town psyche, and that’s why there were such cheap and vulgar attitudes on display among the youth who walked with purposeful stylish strides, a peculiar premonition of darkness lent its fear to the vein of the town. I could not draw myself away from the demons of death that danced with menacing glares beyond the sounds of Wynton Marsalis blowing on the trumpet, and I worried over and over about the burning pits of Hell, and I wept for the great evil that ruled the world. And my family discussed death over food at the dining table, they discussed in morbid detail with overt seriousness accidents, run overs, financial ruin, affairs, family dysfunctions and debts.

Towns were hotbeds of all sorts of mental disorders, and they were in clear display, the most common were the need to exhibit a form of superiority, man’s ancient need to rule reared its ugly head often, and since there was a clear social disparity at work slowly consuming the nature of man, forcing him to behave in reckless endangering ways, and I could sense a great violence that would soon be unleashed in the near future, and the local newspapers printed with indecipherable cheap ink wrote great stories about all the local murder and politics.

Everyday was different, to be conscious of all the spiritual schemes one had to grow aware of in a day, to accept the thesis that Happiness could never be possessed for more than an hour, and to grow accustomed to the fact that people were meant to change over the course and span of each day and linger between tolerable and intolerable, to prepare one’s mind to escape the demonic agendas that infiltrated one’s egoic highway as it streamed into the mind, and to be entirely confident and kind to a world that was in decay and unkind truly obliterated all my happiness. I repeatedly confessed my sins in the chapel nearby, I prayed for my own salvation, and I realized that at the start of each day I attended to its demands with all the strength of a withered, dry flower. I was eternally unsure, I ruminated excessively in my historical shortcomings, I gained more humility by facing my greatest failures and attempting to give a word of insight in similar situations of other people that I had stored in my memory, and I hungrily and almost evasively approached the sanctuary of prayer in order to gain strength to merely function as a living corpse with a barest hint of intellectual capacity.

I routinely skipped the introductions of all the novellas that I read, they seemed rather heavy and elicited the fear that I would never be able to complete my reading expeditions. I avoided the social networks since this particular girl seemed more and more obsessed with displaying her feminist side, she displayed wallpapers with quotes of Jane Austen, from Anne of the Green Gables, from Jane of Eyre, she was entirely convinced that while she wandered around trapped in her hapless existence with her love for all the imaginative escapism offered through expositions of erstwhile upper class society, she somehow made it appear like all the unknown princess fairy tales had been based on her, I had the lowest tolerance for those who spoke ill of Virginia Woolf, normal well adjusted people routinely bored me with all their well planned plans, I had controlled my laughter when a recent classmate had talked pompously about how he liked to plan his day with all the glory of a Julius Caesar. Why did people have such trouble accepting themselves in totality…?? And instead they engaged in creating a complex social persona that was more and more pretentious than it was real, but hey who was I to judge, to each his own.


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