(no subject)
What is truth?
Next chilly November night he’s on the street again. Hands in his pockets waiting anxiously for someone to come and pick him up. He wears new black pants and woolen shirt and he’s not so cold as previous nights.
He feels different and not so dirty in his soul. His mind is still troubled and his face is still worried but he doesn’t feel cold.
He sees the familiar silver skull skinning its way to him in the moonlight. He stands still and waits it to stop and black window to roll down. He sees the known hand showing him to come. He walks to the car and steps inside.
He sits in the dark and feels the change in the air. He’s still too much in awe to find courage to ask who is this man and what does he want? He feels close to this tall man but still there’s a distance vast to be crossed.
The engine dies and he gets outside. Takes forty-five steps over the gray path, into the long cold hall and into dark room painted in black.
He sits on the silk sheets and waits for the pale face to ask. He feels the burning eyes on the pulsing vein on his neck and he shudders inside. His heart beats like death drum to the silence around.
He’s asked what is the truth? He swallows the fear and sights.
He says it’s something he accepts like the fact he’s poor and has a lonely heart.
He thinks it’s personal for only one knows his own thoughts.
It’s momentary, temporary, dependant on time for everybody changes it the way they like.
He believes it’s here and now.
He thinks it’s impossible for one sometimes lies and nobody’s completely honest to admit the crime.
It’s also a lie you bought for its good sound.
It’s cruel projection of dull reality he tries to forget about.
The pale fingers put the money in his palm and he senses it’s cold soft touch disturbing him inside. The emerald satisfied eyes follow him to the car. He gets in the dark and sits to be driven away from the gray old house.
The car stops in the lonely street and he gets out. He takes the money out of his pocket and puts it between his palms. He blows in his hands still shivering inside of the cold hand that touched his scar.
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love/hate?
interesting/boring?