As She Drags...

As she drags her fag at half-past one, she ponders on the book cover she had just closed. 

The story was one that was disturbing. Firstly, it was hard to reconcile it with the book she had finished prior to this one. Two tales of African American Men, going thru the hard life, trying to make it. Cos they have been charged to make it. They cannot fail. 

While one is an autobiography of what is now Earth's most celebrated man, leader in power and the other fiction, one cannot help but ponder how easily the imagined could have been transposed into reality. Then really, it would have been then reading one story, in two books.

And so, I have finished the 100-odd pages yet I still cannot find a reason to justify the earlier out-pouring of pure deadly sin musings. I'm still toying if instead of the traditional printer letter ala Bush Sr, I should instead print off the post, stick it in an envelope and say "Here's another laugh - on the house!"

Why am I in a despondent mode? And why am I having to try so hard to muster even a drop of enthusiasm? It almost feels as if I'm spoiling for a fight. But for what cause? What reason? And best of all - on what grounds?

She lights another, even though the first had burnt itself out while her fingers went tipper-tap across this fading keyboard. She really shouldn't - these shots of nicotine at this hour is only gonna have her awake still at 3 later.

Maybe it's the book. The many pages of situations, desperations, anxieties, attempts to make things right ~ it was all too familiar and hit too close to home. THEY WERE CHARGED NOT TO FAIL. But it all ended well, didn't it? In the end, the character saw thru what he had to do, somehow managed to do it and all is on the road to being well again. Again - hitting too close to home.

Maybe I'm just tired. Tired of the same scenes, the same dialogues, the same emotions and motions, the same dreams and inspirations that have not yet bore fruit. Something's gotta give just like how a conveyor belt would eventually break down at some point and all actions come to a standstill.

Maybe this book doesn't make me feel extraordinary anymore. For a man living in Manhattan to be able to take almost all of life's experiences in the last decade and turn it into a literary piece that could potentially win him EUR 100,000 in 2 weeks. 

But then I'd have to stop and ask - did I feel extraordinary in the first instance? 

She puts the 2nd fag out. Hey - at least she smoked 2/3s of it. And she looks around and wonders if she should jump straight on into the next book that lays waiting on the dining room table.

I really shouldn't think so much anymore for today. 3 postings in 12 hours *shivers* that almost always spells trouble. And trouble is not what we're looking for this weekend. Cos we're not a fictional character in a book. So we're choosing not to be like the Man Gone Down.

Nah... she'll just go to bed and like magic, sleep will engulf her and soon it'll be morning.