Another Day.

He wakes up and goes to bible study and is confused when he is asked how he could help the bible study leader tell him what he thinks God is. The whole point of these bible studies is to find out what God is. What is God? He doesn’t know. He gets confused and he gets angry but he manages to calm down. Then he wonders what he is still doing there because the woman he loves no longer loves him and the only reason he was going to these classes is so that she would love him more but now she doesn’t love him at all, after the tragic stalking debacle of the weekend before so he wonders how he might politely extricate himself from these proceedings then he has a better idea and thinks maybe he should keep on going and become a member of the Jehovah Witness Council that will make her love him he thinks. Then he calls his friend and tells him this idea and he soon realises what a silly idea it is. Even though his friend suggested that he use the money he has saved to go back to San Francisco and ride a horse to the woman he loves house and spread rose petals everywhere. He thinks his friend is joking. So he laughs. He then thinks that he should hire Depeche Mode to play for her as that is her favourite band and he will write a song for them and teach them to ride horses too and then everything will be fine and he will get married to her and have children with her in New Zealand. This is not going to happen. He knows this but he still dreams realising, as he talks that he is always happy thinking about the places he used to be in or the places he will be in not the place he exists in now. He will never be happy but he is used to this unhappiness and to have his life any other way would confuse him now that he is old and slowly balding in all the wrong places. He spends the afternoon drifting between sleep and masturbation until the two become one. Then he eats some food and plays some monopoly and watches some terrible television and thinks about his future without the woman he loves and sinks into the bitter sadness that he made for himself.

Published by

The Sleepcoat League

Armchair anthropologist, sometime scribe, freelance philosopher, amateur artist, part-time poet, musical maven, alliteration aficionado.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s