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Guilt Rides Better Than Whiskey
The guilt catches just when the whiskey leaves. And it catches you better: by your collar, your aching balls, your dry gut.
Guilt hurts, humors if you confront it, and blinks when you stammer. It tries to find ways to say it better, even when your mind is fighting with the colors of the world and their erotic confluence that makes it sticky to keep your legs crossed. Occasionally, whiskey-driven, you may grab what your senses desire: quality you’re sure you deserve, and excess of it at that moment, you can’t do without. Next morning, as I said, the guilt catches just when the whiskey leaves. I don’t like this cycle, yet I live it. I am alive. I am comatose. I am a cocktail of both.
My Ancestors Weren’t Apes
Forty years ago, as I was born, I came, invited, adored, into the arms of reality. Over the years I have read many books, people, things. I have scratched my head and other parts, confided with my soul many times, fought its fears that contradicted the norms built by those who pervaded me and my cavemen ancestors.
Our society, like a ready-to-eat meal, has been like this for a long before I came: the good and bad litmus, claws of religion that slows down until you can’t think no more, normalcy a prerequisite for not being called a madman. Today, I can’t find the graveyards of those who made this apparatus. I want to exhume their bodies and ask them, politely (I am still following the norms): Why did they do this to me? To us? I am sure, if I ever get this honor, they will smile, laugh and label me and all others on the planet (us if you are with me) fools. They’d say: “Bloody fools stop aping our vision. Use your eyes, mind, and organs. Make something new. Make this world a better place.”
Cheese vs. Cheese
The goat cheese asked the buffalo cheese: I am smaller in size and weaker in stamina but why is the cheese made from my milk stronger in flavor? The buffalo is not sure if it was an answer or a question.
It’s Everyone’s World
The tourist likes to travel, watch everything like a worldly inspector: dust, insects, muck. But he’s never sure he’s cleansing himself through the observations. That is the best part of being a tourist.