Works and Texts scattered the room, everything from Barthes to
Deleuze, philosophers, know it all’s, pretentious. Each and every one. He
sought meaning from them and they always told him he was wrong.
He lay on his back, watching the La Ventilador turn and hating himself.
He couldn’t help it.
It was too easy to say the right things make the right
gestures, no matter how wrong they were. Going round and round.
Repeating the cycle
Repeating the cycle
Repeating the cycle
Repeating the cycle
Repeating the cycle
Repeating the cycle
Trapped. Bashing Against the Walls.
She lay next to him. Her slow breathing and warm body a
shallow comfort against the pain he knew
was coming. Days or weeks it didn’t matter,
there would be a fight, he’d get bored, shed go away, he’d run out of options, shed
get fed up……..always something new.
He wanted to escape, but the TOURIST, only had a few others.
Language barriers, traditions, money, and eons kept him separated from the
world around him. This was not his place. Merely a temporary stopping place. A
short respite in the circle of life. Walled off and separate a point in time
meant to be your own.
“Mi Amor” he whispered into the dark. The language had crept
into his vocabulary just like this life and these people had encroached bit by
bit into territory that was his.
She stirred next to him. He turned over and looked at her.
Beautiful. He made a decision. “YOLO” he shouted a pushed that bitch outta bed.
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