Word of the Day

Kismet: noun; Destiny; fate.


He looked down at his wrist. In his other hand was a small shaving razor. He brought the razor to his wrist, it trembled in his hand and he wondered if he should go through with it. He pressed the blade flat against his wrist and sighed.

"What the hell. How did I get to the point where I would even consider this?"

He thought about it. The next chain of events that ran through his head played quickly but vividly; it started with his girlfriend of five years dumping him by sending her new boyfriend with a "I'm sorry" card, his boss handing him a pink slip because his company was bought out by a national conglomerate and was outsourcing, his best friend of 10 years suddenly becoming a "bro" and telling him that he wasn't cool enough to "chill" anymore. All in all, he believed that he had every right to end it all and jump right to the end of the book. A final page with a single red period.

He slumped up against the bathtub, and dropped the razor onto the floor.

"What the hell. Really? Is this what fate has in store for me?"

He wanted to pick up the razor again but something in the back of his mind kept telling him not to do it. The voice, a familiar, gentle and sweet voice kept repeating "don't do it." He closed his eyes and tried to put a face to that voice, but who he saw surprised him.

He was brought back fifteen years. He was inside his room and standing in front of him was his first girlfriend. She had her hands on his cheeks, and she gazed deeply into his eyes.

"I have faith in you. Don't give up okay?" and as she finished saying those words she leaned in to kiss him.

He couldn't help but to cry. The memory came to him so vividly, her hands warm against his cold cheeks, her soft lips pressed against his. He wished again for that warmth that very moment, for her warmth to comfort him. In his second greatest time of need she was there again. He continued to sit there, crying tears of sadness, pain, joy and happiness at the same time.

He regained his composure and picked himself up off the bathroom floor. He washed his face dry, wiped it off and walked over to his telephone. He picked it up and dialed, it started to ring on the other side.

"Hello Jane? It's John. It has been a while hasn't it? Listen, I was wondering if you'd be free sometime soon...."



-This is the story of how I met your mother-

Balloon

Keep pumping this little red balloon. Watch in amazement as it grows and grows.
Oh wait. It popped.

Unintended Pit Stop

Everyone is traveling the fast lane.
I'm stuck at the last pit stop, still trying to change my tire.

Warmth

I walked hurriedly, attempting to break winter's frigid grasp.
"Spare some change?" a man asked, obligatory paper cup in hand.
I walked pass him, but I felt a twinge in my chest.
Guilt?
Perhaps.
Who knows how long the man had been standing there. Asking for change from people rushing to find shelter from the cold and from people in their cars. Did he even have a roof over his head for the night?
I felt troubled. I wanted to do something more than just give him a penny, nickel or dime.
"Subway" I thought to myself.
I walked in.
"Welcome, what can I get you?" asked the man behind the counter.
"What soups do you have?"
"I have chicken noodle and cream of broccoli." he sang out. I didn't believe it either, but the man behind the counter in a sing-song voice sang out "cream of broccoli."
"Chicken noodle."
The man packaged my soup and handed it to me. I took the bag, and headed back to the corner where I passed the first man.
He didn't realize I was behind him, he was focused on the cars waiting for the light, asking for change. The drivers shook their heads one by one, but the man never faltered. He saw me standing there on the corner and approached me.
"Spare some change?"
I looked at his face. A white beard, wrinkles showing how jaded he is. I lifted the soup.
"I know it is not much, but here is a soup. Chicken noodle."
The man hesitated for a fraction of a second, but his tone lifted as he reached for the bag.
"Oh! Thank you brother." He said.
"Enjoy and keep warm." I replied.
"Thank you brother." He said again. It felt different the second time around. It was filled with honest sincerity.
I didn't look back as I walked away. I just hoped that my little gift of a small chicken noodle soup would provide momentary warmth for someone in the cold.
I knew one thing for sure. Hearing honest sincerity from a complete stranger for such a small gift makes a frigid night seem less cold.

a generic break up

Indulge me in my little request.
A glass of gin -dry,
a period of silence, accented by my self misery.

A sip, a toast. To my once beating heart which bled for you. To your soft lips that I kissed.
A gulp. fill it back up.

Another sip. Another toast.To the empty seat across from me. To the extra space in my bed.

Maybe I should play a sad song on my radio.
Or maybe have another sip, another toast.

Work

The machine whirs to life, adding color to a plain bucket devoid of excitement. I watch as each drop of color falls in, sinking into that sea of white acrylic, adding an emotion waiting to blanket a wall.

Three drops of blue, solemn and alone, but hanging high above in the sky.
Five drops of green, smart and aged, imparting wisdom from old roots.
Two drops of red, headstrong and youthful, waiting to explode with passion.

I hammer the lid back on, making sure that all that energy gets contained, all that emotion does not escape. The can now goes to the mixer.

I place the can in and smile, watching as the mixer shakes fervently, creating a new emotion that may just be one of a kind, to be applied in someone's home and someone's heart.

Today, I dreamt and I wept.

This is not who I want to be.

Shackled by numbers never knowing what integer is the right key that will set me free from this numeric prison. Paper forms that require signatures, signatures that require forms, a never ending cycle of administrative chains connected to that prison.

I just want to dream. I want to dream in vivid text, colors filled in by sweeping monologues and jarring dialogue. Conflicts created from trying to find the right words to say -correction- the perfect words to hear.

I don't want to live a life of crunching numbers. I want to live a life of weaving words.