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The Tattered Words

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haven’t written anything in a while. I had always though writing had been my thing, what I was meant to do. Wonder if that was but yet another childish craze like so many others I’ve had before. What was the point in it the end, I chose not to put a question mark after that last sentence. It’s a question to which I already have the answers. But I continue to ask that very same question. My 8th grade class teacher once said that I needed to set my priorities straight. Sure I did.

I don’t know why I’m writing this. Maybe somebody will read this someday and it will help him know me better, may be a craving to not be misunderstood anymore. It hurts, in a way. Seems like I’ve caved in. Given in to it all. For so long had I struggled, dared to be who I was. But alas, it’s not to be. I can still recall being stared at, jeered at for being what I was. For not being mechanic, for not being superficial, for being human.

The air conditioning rustles my hair as my pen glides along the papyrus surface. God knows how many emotions work behind every letter. I realized a while ago that I hate myself for being me. Why couldn’t I have just been one of them? Machine-like, driven by the desire to climb the ladders of this materialistic society, cosmetic to all the changes around me. I always thought God made me for a purpose, a reason. I was wrong after all. Maybe I’m not different at all; I’m just like that Greek guy who fell in love with his own reflection in the water. Perhaps, I am just another self centered ego maniac. Yes, that seems like a possible option. I just made things seem harder than they really were didn’t I?

It’s been nice these past few days. Relative solitude and silence. A great chance to think things over. The stupid city never gave you that chance. I had always insisted on staying in the suburbs. But she kept on insisting on the city. She said it would give our children more opportunities. “Opportunities for what ?” was what I wanted to ask her. Never did though. There was something about her, something in those eyes that kept me speechless. I still remember when we met. I was like any other hormonally charged young man. More interested in her physicality than the person she was. It changed with time though, she became the one human who understood. But again, I doubt she really did. Just listened and nodded because she cared. At least she cared.

I remember my travels, that trip to Malaysia and the glittering streets of Kualalampur. That strange old Malaysian man who kept on telling me myths during my evening walks to that Indian restaurant. He said that demons inhibit human souls. Most demons are alike, that’s why most humans are driven by more or less the same desires. Uncommon demons inhibit uncommon souls, make them do things others will not. He said I’ve been inhibited with an unorthodox one. Have I now.
Has anyone read up to this point? Are my wording skills that gripping? Hasn’t the reader thrown this away as just bull s*** written by some self centered old coot? The silence in room is broken.

“It’s time for your anesthesia” the nurse said in her usual demeanor as she made her way in.

“Ok then. Um, nurse, can you give this to my son when he gets here?” I said, handing her my obituary.

I looked to the corner of the room, my demon was grunting, in its usual unorthodox way.





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