It's kind of funny 'cause I've been talking shit about it. I even called it a cell. And know I've lost it; it's funny how you grow attached to things even though they end up hurting you. Only the separations hurts you more. Ahhh, but I get ahead of myself.
Let's talk about writing first. I've always envied those authors that say the stories just write themselves and that the writer just serves as a proxy for the art. Specifically, I recall JM DeMateis when he was writing Justice League back in the 90s. When he finished his stint on the book he said that writing the dialogue for the characters was like sitting down with his buddies; only these where imaginary. But it was the characters who spoke; not him, the writer! I recall also Stephen King who concocted a grim tale, and the best one I've ever read, as he is wont to do. When he happened to watch someone drop coins into a rain filled drainage.
I'm real proud of my previous two tales in this saga, Flicker and The Dead Fly. It seems a writer should not praise himself so but, I think they paint a haunting picture of what it is to work in the government of Puerto Rico. At least for some people. I. I would not like to think that I'm the only one who feels this way. They are also the very first thing I've written that, when I go back to them, I like them. Plus, you can dissect the tales. I think you can easily draw parallels between Flicker and The Dead Fly even though the stiles are mostly different. To my amazement, almost without effort I created two compelling, if short, views on the same subject. A picture may be worth a thousand words, and yet, the value, the weight is different.
I said the same things in totally different ways...
Yet, the tales came from entirely external factors. I did not invent them, I just gave them color, substance . And in so doing. The flickering light and the dead fly, in the crafting, became mine. What would have destroyed me became my strength. I gave them life and they; they could take none from me.
But it don't make me mad none (succulent sentence). In a way life itself gave me two interesting stories, a way to tell them, courage to share them. And some eyeballs to read them (yes, I'm talking 'bout you!).
And now I must move. Someone just came up and said he would "use" my cubicle. Not my supervisor, not even the person that works with such administrative matters, but the guy that's gonna use the cubicle! I'm dumbfounded. Communication here is a huge problem. But this, it's too much.
To be fair, they had already told me that I should move. "You're all alone in that aisle. That can't be good for your psyche (Ha!)." If they had just told me the truth from the beginning I wouldn't be gnashing my teeth. Well, I would. But it would be less gnashy than it is.
And truth, they can't handle the truth. They can't speak the truth. Why can't they say that I've got a privileged cubicle I don't deserve (but didn't ask for, either). Why can't they say I've done something wrong ? Why cant they say I've fallen from grace?
There is no hope...
Oh, my!... my brain works in mysterious ways even to me it seems. You see, there is a hidden meaning in my words... But I can't, I can't explain fully... It's too risky to name. There is no hope. But ohh so fun to be this clever without even knowing it...
So, I move. I leave behind a dead light fixture that seemed to me to be my own soul. A small dead lizard, and it's ghost, trapped within it's confines; mirroring my own entrapment. A dead fly, that beat it's wings as a warning. A bright light, like the promise of a brighter future.
I move on. Sadly, leaving loved concepts behind. I feel ready... I don't know where the path leads to but I'm willing to walk it, perhaps in a bolder way than I did before. Will you accompany me?
The information soldier marches on...
Comments
Post new comment