I never tire reading, and when I’m not fully conscious of the author’s words I often leap from the pages of the book to the colourful scenery before my eyes. In front of me are mannequins designed to commercialize clothes for Goddesses or female athletes. There had been numerous passerbys who subconsciously stare at them and I’d like to imagine what it is in their minds that they were thinking:
“Oh, I’d need to swallow my vices and shit them out just to have the discipline to get that body and make that dress work for me.”
“Well that would really look hot on Isabela—I should definitely meet with her again, just need to make up another excuse to my wife.”
All these internal fantasies belong to no one but me. Because we all must understand that no one thinks about such things. It is not because people are close-minded or that they are all walking zombies waiting for their next share of blood, I don’t think I have the slightest right to think this way. It is simply because they don’t have time. That is all. Here I am, wasting lead, and for most people, it’s a waste of time, but I believe I’ve travelled for a bit without going. Experience something without directly experiencing. Just a few feet to my right is a tired man in his early fifties; a frown plastered on his face, dark shades blocking the modern tragedies of our new generation and with each passing minute he sinks to his soft, leather throne inch by inch. I find this sight very amusing, like watching a cat balancing on an arm of a tree, fighting off a mid-afternoon nap. And I can only imagine what it would be like to be him: A forgotten father with dreams gone astray, time wasted, life thrown away, crawling to nowhere on the large margins of his own existence, spending what’s left sitting on a public sofa and passing out to bitter slumber. If I could just be him for a minute, possess his body like a mind controlling a machine, I’d open my eyes wide like a madman, and fill my lungs with the air as cold as the wind in Antarctica. But in a split second, I caught myself thinking, caught my face smiling, and my eyes staring at him like a goof. When a huge man dressed in all black like a valet driver, with a radio tucked between his belt went near this sleeping cat-fellow and lectured him that the sofa was just for lounging, “You can’t sleep here, sir, I’m sorry.” He said.
He did the work for me, only he did it physically. And after a while the man left, probably decided to go home and watch some terrible news on T.V and dream moments, brilliant possibilities scraped off from his contingent life, which he’ll instantly forget. And I just kept reading, for about 10minutes, and the same huge man in black passed by during his second normal rotation, laughing with the person he’s talking to on the radio about some man named, Padio, and how humiliating it was to fall on his bike while eating a banana. And I wanted to shake him off his sleep as well, and to tell him to stop lying around the margins.