Hindsight is always 20/20, but surely my foresight can't be that bad, can it?
Sometimes when I wake up to the sound of the same alarm of another day facing the ceiling, sometimes the wall, sometimes nothing, I wonder; what the actual fuck am I doing here? (I tend to stray away from cursing on my blog but sometimes I feel it is somewhat appropriate)
Sometimes when I look at my own goddamn name on the green and black in the mirror, complete with the three ugly stripes down my chest I wonder; what the actual fuck did I do it all for?
Sometimes I can stare down into the plastic plates of my life and forget the future. All I can see and taste is spice. Also it's not very nice.
Yes, I can plan ahead into the distant future and yearn for cool wind to kiss my skin or perhaps a day where I can dress myself in the mirror without having to stick to the same colors every day, but the present presents itself on a silver platter just for me - the waiter floats down on gangly legs with a loosened tie, cropped two-by-one and five-o'-clock shadow.
"Your meal, sir," he lays down the silver dome on the table where we have been seated for the past year. "Sorry.." He clears his throat, scratches his neck audibly, rolls his eyes. "Sergeant. My mistake". I glance at him to tell him it was okay, but he's disappeared, a faint wisp of smoke spiraling downward.
Eat, you gesture with your eyes, and I lift off the cloche with the tip of my pinky. It's silver, silver, second to gold, you say, and I have to agree. Inside there's another cloche, and I am already tired of this game, I lift it up and find..
A card. A little sandwich card folded downwards into a little tent with a number on it. DISAPPOINTMENT, the card reads but only the number remains in wiry gold writing. Should I call it? I ask no one, and everyone wordlessly reaches into their handbags and pulls out a mobile phone. I choose one at random and dial the number.
H-hello? A voice, thin as a whisper, yet as rich as a sunset trickles in from the earpiece.
Hi. Was that my voice?
Who are you? The musicality of her voice was undeniable, inescapable. Every syllable was a note, every sentence a melody.
I.. Well, I'm not exactly sure.
O-oh. The dismay in her voice was obvious, the diminuendo encroaching rapidly on my hastening pulse.
W-wait, don't go..! It was like I already knew.
There wasn't as much as a bye, before the line dropped dead. CALL ENDED, SUCKA, flashed lazily on the screen as I hung up. I looked to hand the phone back, but everyone was gone. Resigned, I dumped it onto the plate with the sandwich card, and slouched back into the chair.
Do you understand now? You ask, wearing your sunglasses, and standing up, legs knocking your chair over.
Yeah, yeah I do, I tell you, but we both know the truth.