I Write Sins... Not Tragedies 37 & 38 - Time of Dying & I Wear This Because Life is War

Intoxicating, is the only way I’d describe my sick mind as I see her leave the apartment for work. The flood of reoccurring questions I see incoming is absolutely terrifying, sending me in a frenzy as they all hit at once. My arms start to shake, my neck starts to hurt, and this unquenchable thirst to scream and punch something is all I feel as I try to avert my consciousness from any of the worries and questions that drawn me in sorrow and anxiety. Pacing around the apartment, with more and more adrenaline flowing through me, my flight or fight response is slowly overflowing as my movements become more and more sudden. Circles clockwise, circle clockwise, I make circles clockwise. Then, stop. Turn right and with the determination of a bull I start to stroll up, turn quickly around and down the hallway. Up… And down. Up… And then down. Quicker and quicker I move until I find myself exhausted with the watch on my wrist beeping that I’ve done ten thousand steps in just the hour and a half since I woke up. So I stop. Though, maybe I shouldn’t have… As it was a mistake.

I grasp for air but take a whole mouth of panic inducing questions as I swallow feeling my heart beat faster and faster. My heart is pounding in my chest, resonating throughout my body. So, I lay in bed. Eyes wide open. Once more stuck looking at the ceiling as my body is taking a trip on its own and I try to keep my mind in place from drifting towards any other new dangerous places. My ears start to ring a tune I grew accustomed to. Minutes pass, there is no new feeling I’m feeling as I go through this once more as is routine by now. There is no escape. There is nowhere to run. There is nothing else to do. I feel the waves overwhelm me as I hold onto the bed and the mattress thinking of thinking no thoughts. Because no thought is better than any thought right now. Yet, I can’t live without thought. It’s the thing I need the most to work with. And that’s how my panic deepens even further. I can’t hear much, not that I even want to hear anything, so I close my eyes thinking that maybe a quick nap.

Do I even feel anything properly anymore? Or are all my senses turned to eleven? Is this how Spidey’s spider sense feels? A tingle throughout your body? Sometimes it feels strange to know that you are just a brain in a jar of bones, meat and liquids. And yet, even aware of this fact, I sit here and tremble with anxiety. Anxiety, how ridiculous is that? Anxiety doesn’t make sense. It’s irrational. It’s so unbelievable to me. The more you deconstruct these the reality we live in, the more absurd it gets. Due to the fact that my gooey blob in my oval skeleton somehow has electricity in it, I get spooked. Why? Because I can see things with two gelatinous blobs in the same oval skeleton or hear with two tubes that somehow also go into the big tube that you can shove things down on and also breath through. Which are all in the same skeleton part, because of course they are. So then the jellyfish interprets it as something you must fear or run away from. Why? Because. I don’t know. We might be aware of the fact that we’re aware, yet are we truly aware if we can’t go past this whole subconscious thing the gooey electric blob has? I’m afraid of how I might think if I were on drugs? If these are my thought sober.

The weird thing is that I were to tell this to anyone, they wouldn’t understand and then I’d get even more anxious. I mean, how can you not get excited about this sort of stuff? Especially when you think that you think things with almost a literal jellyfish that named itself. And then there are people that don’t have a little voice in their heads like I do when they think. Which is even more mind blowing. Existence itself is an abomination that for now doesn’t make sense. If there is no sense before existence that we know how to explain, then how can there be sense in what we do and have right now? Religions and all that spiritual stuff simply isn’t satisfactory. It feels like giving up responsibility, sense and any need for an answer. And I can’t have that if I’m meant to create a sense for who I ought to be, at least. I don’t know. I’m afraid of being wrong. No… Not wrong. Wrong is the wrong word here. I’m afraid of being a bad person. I want to do good, be a decent person at least. And when there’s nothing to approve what you are doing it’s anxiety inducing. I hate feeling like I can’t explain or express myself, when I do it just fine.

And so I spend my days trying to fall asleep when I can’t, trying to work when I can’t, trying to feel normal, when there is no normal. Then after all is said and done, I feel bad for everything I’ve ever thought of or have done. So you wonder what the fuck, when you feel you are stuck in this pit of hell where the only thing that satisfies you is literally doing nothing of importance. As any responsibility feels like a burden and any work feels like you are disappointing someone or indeed, everyone. What do I want? What do I need? Who am I anymore when you drift away to places you have no places being at? All my drive, my will for success, my dreams seem futile in the face of people who chow down without thinking. I don’t want to think about that anymore, it makes me feel sick to my stomach. Well, at least it’s exhausting to think of these things. I can fall asleep in peace knowing that when I wake up, everything could be slightly better or just worse than it was before.

Sometimes, much like now, I feel like I just can’t care to save my life. Like what am I going to do? Save the world? Change people’s minds? Go and fall face first into a pile of money? Get a call from a publishing house telling me that they’d love to pay me a few hundred thousand to publish a book? Delusions! Delusions! I tell you. Dreams of grandeur without the ability to put in any effort is like trying to take a shit whilst constipated, nothing’s gonna come out of it. You know what, I’m not going to continue the rest of the analogy I had, hah. And so, have passed thirty minutes of me trying to calm myself down from a panic attack, yet instead of taking a nap, I distracted myself with weird thoughts that only make sense to me and me alone, which is sad, cause I’d like to share these with people. But how can I share any of those with people when people don’t even understand sarcasm in text? Yet they all say that they have their second language as sarcasm. The only second language you have, Stacy, is the Starbucks menu and the Sephora catalog. Well, this was unexpected, I say as the phone starts to ring…

Hope you liked this two chapter short story of I Write Sins… Not Tragedies. I know I didn’t post last week, this is why we have this two chapter this Saturday. But I was busy trying to reinstall stuff, refind things that I’ve lost with the new Windows install. That, and losing all my bookmarks from the past three years. And it being a very hectic weekend and week overall. If you liked it and want to support and keep the short stories free, you can always donate at: https://www.paypal.me/RaulFO

I Write Sins... Not Tragedies 36 - In The End

I don’t know how to help you. I don’t know if anyone can help you with any of these problems you choose to have. As she speaks, she slowly approaches me. Maybe some things aren’t meant to be thought through and fought on your own. Progress should be slow, painful yet steady and not a jump into whatever future you have imagined yourself to have. And I don’t know what you are trying to convince yourself of, but it is clearly not working. Since you seem to only suffer more by your own anxious hand. I start to break down and cry as something in my chest crumbles. I feel so useless and dumb, I say as she strokes my hair. But you’re not. Things simply are more complicated than you thought they’d be. You’re trying to fight an unwinnable battle against change. Because it takes time, hundreds of years and you don’t have that, I don’t have that. I cling onto her tightly. That’s exactly the problem, I cry out.

Annoyed, she backs off and sits at the table. Listen, she says whilst scratching her head, you know I support you in everything you have and I love you for doing all this. But you are so much smarter than this and yet you struggle to figure out how to do what you love. Why? I stand up looking her into the eyes. Because I can’t. They are my dreams. They are not your dreams or anyone else’s but mine. What I want, you don’t like. What I love, they hate. What I need, they think it’s a pain in the ass to even think about. And I know this. But, at the same time, I don’t know what they want. And even if I knew, what difference would it make? Because I wouldn’t be able to give them what they want. That’s besides the fact that they don’t even know what they want. They barely know what they’ll eat tomorrow, who should they know what to do with their lives or even what to want or need? I am lost in this sea of uncertainty. She giggles. We all are. It’s we just call it life, you drama queen.

Not helpful, I interject as I pull the chair from under the table and sit down. I hate that we just gloss over all these things like they aren’t meant to be solved. I mean, why be decent? Why bother at all when we can’t do the basics? It’s like everyone’s trying to fly planes without taking the damn course to learn how to pilot. It’s absolutely ridiculous and it bothers me beyond belief. If we have a mutual responsibility towards each other… Because in the end it might not matter. Nor can you stop to consider literally everyone, she interrupts me. That’s not what I’m saying, I slam my hand on the table. There are things we all agreed are bad, right? Things that we won’t do because they’re objectively bad, right? So, then why can’t we just abide by the things we made that could make our lives easier? We’re the ones making the fucking rules, we’re the ones that should fucking follow the most basic of them all. Fuck! She gets up. I don’t think you’ll ever find a satisfactory answer to this. And leaves…

Hope you liked this chapter of the short story I Write Sins… I am so so very sorry it is late. But my laptop decided to die on me this weekend and I had a lot of catching up to do. And reinstalling things, which I’m still not done with. But should be back regularly starting this week. And if you want to help keep the short stories free, you can always donate at: https://www.paypal.me/RaulFO

I Write Sins... Not Tragedies 35 - Chop Suey

Why are you doing this to yourself? She asks with a soft whisper in my ear, holding my head in her arms. Who cares? I raise my head. I care. It unsettles me to not know these things. I can’t function without knowing this. But why? She interrupts. Because I need to know, no, I need to feel that I am doing better, am being better. She takes a step back. What do you mean doing better? I need to know that I am doing and that I am doing it the right way. I don’t know how to explain the void that is in my heart when I have to think or do something that has no answer. I need to feel like I’ve done something right. Because I’ve done things… I’ve done many things. Whether they failed or not, it didn’t feel like they mattered if they were the right or wrong thing. And I hate it. I despise it. I want to do better. I want to leave some wisdom behind. Something of value to someone. My son or daughter, the reader that reads whatever I write, the love of my life that listens to what I have to say… To anyone that accepts to even hear me for that matter.

Stop it! Stop putting so much pressure on yourself. You’re not a super man. You are not a hero of all. You’re you. And you have to accept that it’s fine that you are you. She says whilst hugging me. I know, I say as I push her back. I know all that. But I can’t forgive myself if I won’t find out the answer. I know I can find the answer to this. Imagine if you could answer questions that irked humanity for thousands of years and solve frustrations, problems, wouldn’t you do it? Of course, you would. Any sane, decent person would. But most give up. Most surrender. They flee. Because there’s responsibility. Accountability from the future already judging them or worse, mocking them if they were wrong. Look at all these fallen greats, people we worshiped once now forgotten. Any wisdom they might have had thrown out the window because they once said something that was proven wrong by time and advancements. Each generation that comes after us will judge us. I already feel horrible for how I’ve been until now. I don’t need any more of that.

I get it. But why are you torturing yourself with answers that need not be? I take another step back. Because they are needed. People don’t have them. They must be needed. Think about it. All these things we are frustrated about, simply accepting them as a natural order or whatever, do us no good. When you hit yourself on unsatisfactory answer after unsatisfactory answer it is simply so UGH! I can’t fucking deal with it. What the fuck is the point of being if you can’t solve problems that have an answer, because it’s just there. You just have to look at it, work at it and then simply get it. Why can’t people simply be decent? Not good, decent. If people were decent, none of this wouldn’t be a problem. And yes, you can say that if I discover some answers, I might go down in history or something. But that’s simply being delusional or worse, an asshole. And that defeats the purpose of everything I just said. I’m exhausted. I am tired. I don’t know what the fuck to do anymore… Help me…

If you liked this chapter of the short story I Write Sins… don’t forget to like it, share it, comment with your opinion down in the comments. And if you want to help keep these short stories free, you can always help by donating at: https://www.paypal.me/RaulFO

I Write Sins... Not Tragedies 34 - Dream On

I’ve been having these vivid, almost realistic dreams where I couldn’t tell one apart from the other. She looks at me, waiting… I don’t know what you expect me to tell you. They are frightening. The sensations, I can feel everything in those dreams. The smell, the touch, the texture, the taste, I can describe everything to you in way too many details. And I don’t know why. I don’t know why the dreams feel like that. And the nightmares are worse… She pauses and looks at me once more. I don’t know what to make of it. They say that when you dream of strangers, it’s because you met them recently. She interrupts. I heard something like that too. Certain face imprint in your subconscious when you find them attractive or bizarre. I nod. Yeah, something like that. But what I don’t understand is what is wrong with me? Why am I having those dreams? She once more turns towards me. I have some ideas, but they’re insignificant or plain dumb to be real in some sense. Either that, or I believe myself to be better than what I think the problem is. Deny myself human flaws.

She starts laughing. Or, if I may suggest this, you are overthinking it. We each have desires and wants. But as long as we don’t act on them or we don’t take them too far, I think we’re okay, as humans, in general. I turn towards her. Sure, but what does it say about you? What does it say about how you feel? What you think? How you are as a human, if… They’re dreams, she quickly interjects. You can judge yourself by dreams. Yes you can, I say as I look at her with a disgruntled face. That’s stupid. No one will ever do that. People barely judge themselves by their conscious actions. You are being unreasonable for no reason. I don’t care about others, I say as I get up from the table. We are not people… I don’t care about people. I care about me and everything that is beyond whatever anyone thinks. And that’s why everyone thinks you’re an asshole, she shouts. I don’t care what they think. They are worse than I am! And I want to be better, way better than they are!

Dreams are the projection of our mind in some for, be it conscious or not. And it matters. It has to matter. She turns towards me. Only because you want it to matter. Not that it does. Yes it does, I interrupt her. Listen, if you are smoking one cigarette every single day, at one point you are going to start smoking more and more without knowing it. Why? Because you normalize it! The same thing goes with dreams. If you choose to normalize whatever shitty behavior you have in your mind, you are going to act on it at some point. It basically building courage to do the thing you want to, no matter how bad or immoral it may be. As long as you can justify it to yourself, then everything is okay. I believe it’s the same sort of bias, where if you do something good, you allow yourself to do something bad to balance things out. So, if you’re unhappy, let’s say in your relationship, and you justify cheating by saying you put up with me as being a good thing, then you will simply do it. Which is fucked… And I hate it… She stands up, stops me in my tracks…

If you liked this chapter of the short story I Write Sins… Not Tragedies, don’t forget to like it, share it and tell me your opinion about what dreams say about you in the comments. And if you want to help more and to keep these short stories free, you can always donate at: https://www.paypal.me/RaulFO

I Write Sins... Not Tragedies 33 - Paranoid

What are you talking about? She takes a step back. Don’t say that. You know what I’m talking about. I’m not in the mood for this… I don’t ever remember you being so forgetful. So, how about you tell me what shouldn’t I know? Frightened she looks at me. I have no clue what you are talking about. I slam my hand on the table. Yes you do. Don’t play dumb, of course you do. You know everything. There is no way you don’t know what I am talking about or referencing. So, what the fuck am I supposed to not know? My hands are shaking. I really have no clue what you are on about. Where did this… I stand up. Don’t do this to me. Don’t do this to me now. You… She takes another step back and hits the door behind her. When did I say that? What are you talking about? I slam my hand on the table again. Yesterday! Not a week ago, not a few months ago, but yesterday! You told a dude, at your work, that I shouldn’t know about something.

Her eyes get teary. I don’t know. Bullshit! I scream. There is no fucking way that you don’t remember that. It was right during our call. But I didn’t talk to anyone during our call, she says. Yes, you did. What the fuck are you on about? You put your phone away for some reason and didn’t hang up thinking I will. And then you started fucking flirting and telling that guy about something that I shouldn’t know about! So tell me. What the fuck should I not know about? And since when? Since when should I not know about things? Seems to me… I sit down. It seems to me like you’re not happy, anymore. Like, I’m not happy anymore. Like, I don’t know why we are even doing this anymore. Do you ever ask yourself why we’re doing this? Or… What are we doing? Because I… Don’t know anymore. I don’t know what you are doing. I don’t know what I am doing. I don’t even want to know. Because I’m afraid whatever you might say, is… Worse than I imagined. And I don’t want that.

She stands there looking at me. Her eyes watering… I don’t know either. I just don’t want to fight or worse… And… The thing you shouldn’t know about was stupid. Because it wasn’t even anything. It was just an idea I had about something I thought to buy. But then, I looked for it and saw that it was dumb and gave up on it last night. This is why I told you not to hold onto things, because I already forgot about it and it wasn’t even anything important. Yes it was, I say, it very much was. And I didn’t, because it happened yesterday. Yes, she interrupts me, but you could have called me again and not wait a whole night to start a fight. I’m sorry, I say. She starts laughing. I can’t believe it. It took you this many years to admit you were wrong for one. At least I did, I tell her as I start laughing too. Please don’t make this a habit, she says as she hugs me. Please don’t do that anymore then… She nods as her tears hit the top of my head. Okay…

If you enjoyed this chapter of the short story I Write Sins… don’t forget to give it a like, share it and comment. And if you’d really like to help, you can always donate to keep the short stories free at: https://www.paypal.me/RaulFO

I Write Sins... Not Tragedies 32 - Laughing

My eyes open to a white ceiling and an empty bed. The covers tossed together by the edge, my pillow on the ground, the sounds of cars passing by jolts my brain into a long yawn and a stretch before I get up from the bed. I get up, open the door to our room, step outside as the acrid smell of coffee hits my nose and drags me to the kitchen. Tired, out of it, I sit down on the chiar, head in my hands in front of the espresso machine. The vivid images of that thing in my dream is still haunting me as I blink. Her disgusting sounds as she morphed into that thing give me goosebumps. Yet from it all, I still don’t understand my dream, not that I remember anything else from it, now that I had a minute to think. But in my gut, a sinking feelings sets as regret shows its ugly head for something I hadn’t done but dreamed off. I wish I could understand myself better… A familiar voice from my left speaks up… We all wish the same thing. As her hand goes into my hair and plays with it.

Are you okay? I shake my head. Want me to make you a coffee? I get up and nod. Want some breakfast too? I once more nod as I lay my head on the table. I don’t know what I am doing anymore. I feel so useless. As she opens the coffee jar she turns towards me with a smile and says… Aren’t you a bit of a hypocrite right now? You tell others that it is okay not to know or feel lost, yet… Here you are. Lamenting normalcy, like that’s a bad thing. I groan as I hit my head on the table. Let me suffer for once. Don’t come at me with logic when I just want to feel. Let me feel. She scoffs as she finishes preparing the coffee. What’s wrong, dear? You on your period? She pets my head in jest. Ha, ha. Very funny. She turns on the espresso machine. You’d think that after many years of having the luxury to think about things we plebs don’t have the time to think of, that you’d master the ‘there is nothing you can do attitude’. The machine stops. After last years’ panic attacks, I thought so to. But, I was wrong. I get up to go get milk for the coffee.

Wanna talk? As I pour the cold milk straight into the coffee, I shake my head. You sure? I put the cap back on and go back towards the fridge. Yeah, I’m sure. I’d like to tell you something, but I don’t even know what’s wrong with me or what I want or who I am anymore and… She puts her arms around me. Calm down. I hug her back. Even if I calm down. It’s not going to feel too great. I don’t know how to explain it. She puts her head on my shoulder. I know, I know. My mind goes blank for a second as we hug. Everything seems to have calmed down. Come, sit. Your coffee is going to get cold. As I sit there, smiling, nothing in mind I lose myself looking into nothingness. Her voice, mixes with the noise of the cars and the voice of the people walking and talking outside. I can’t hear anything anymore, nor see anything but the vague shape of my mug and hands as I sip on the coffee. Peaceful, ever so peaceful, as I turn my head to look outside the window at the blue sky. A car honks, I snap out of it with a question perturbing the calm mind. Without a filter, thought, or anything to stop it, I blurt out… So, what were you telling that guy that I shouldn’t know about while you were at work?

Hope you enjoyed today’s chapter of the short story I Write Sins… If you liked it, then please like it, share it and re-read it. And if you would like to help keep the short stories free you can always help with a donation at: https://www.paypal.me/RaulFO

I Write Sins... Not Tragedies 31 - Behind Blue Eyes

I remember looking outside my window every summer day and feeling nothing but emptiness. My room, dark, yet outside the sun was always bright in the clear sky. Not that I drew the curtains. It felt like I was always drowning in something. The weight of my thoughts, expectations, dreams, friends and family was taking me deeper into that hole, suffocating me at the thought that I need to be somebody. Yet every time I let go. They come back and chain me once more to drag me to the bottom. Which is why I grew up thinking love will save me. Will give me wings to fly, to rise above it all, to help me become something more to help me be… More than I am today. Like a breath of fresh air when you feel like a stone lies heavy on your chest…. Love was supposed to save me from it all. To push me forwards into the stratosphere so I can be out of breath but this time for a good reason… Because I’m in love. Because I am for the first time happy. Myself. Because I became myself for the first time… And was happy because of that.

Yet this darkness is soothing no more. The nights I spent awake thinking of who I want to be or become. The home I had found in that darkness, feels like it wants to spit me out into the light, yet I don’t want to. Yet. I don’t like who I am. Yet. Because I feel like those around me are simply bad. People with nothing but selfish desire, unwilling to put away their own egos to satisfy someone that asks for nothing but be left to be happy. And that’s too much to ask of them. And now… I don’t know what I want anymore. Writing, living, loving, hating, thinking, responsibilities, are all now meaningless to me as they don’t want to see me for me. They just want to see what they want, a whatever fucked up worse version of myself that is on par with their shitty behavior and thought pattern. And I always imagined myself that being engaged, in love to be married would be some of my happiest of times. Yet they feel as empty and as meaningless as everything until now. Just as empty as the Christmas eves, new year day, birthday and whatever else we choose to celebrate.

I think some might call this depression. Yet I can’t help to argue against that point of view as I bask in this darkness falling. As I believe it to be a stranger induced coma. Where outside forces forced themselves on you to be what they want. For you to stick to whatever twisted version of normalcy they think is alright. A toxic environment they relish in. A place where your dreams, aspirations, passion and love dies at the hands of those without mercy. Those that loathe excellency and anything that has some mental fortitude to fight the fight they were too afraid to tackle. As they look upon others as a silent majority that nod yet do nothing. They say that the world isn’t against you, they’re just for themselves. Yet I once more beg to disagree. If the world, no matter how small yours is, is against your happiness, then it is the world against you. And just as with freedom, anything selfish that impedes the happiness of someone is beyond selfishness, it’s something worse. Something that we shouldn’t tolerate or suffer by. As is as toxic as the rest of the behaviors we start to disagree with. Yet here I am… In darkness basking once more unwilling to come out and face the world. At least here, I have some silence and peace for once…

Hope you liked this chapter of I Write Sins… Not Tragedies the short story. This chapter is quite a powerful and of course, personal one. As I drain my 2020 frustration all into this chapter of this little story about dreams. If you want to support and help keep these short stories free, you can always donate at: https://www.paypal.me/RaulFO

I Write Sins... Not Tragedies 30 - The Unforgiven

She looks at him with intrigue and hope in her eyes. He starts laughing. Why are you laughing? He takes a step back. Because you are clearly crazy. Fuming she gets in his face. What do you mean crazy? He takes a few more steps back laughing. Well, excuse you, but you let some random guy in your apartment and drunkenly shouted that you want to get kissed. Confused she follows him. So? What’s so wrong with that? He continues to back off laughing as he hits a wall. It reeks of red flags and alcohol. She stares him down. That’s just the wine, it’s innocent, and don’t bring it into this discussion. So? What’s the problem, officer? He laughs nervously. Well, you don’t know anything about me, right? I don’t know anything about you. This is reckless. She puts her finger in his face. Listen here, I do what I want with who I want and when I want it. His tone turns a bit serious. That’s not the problem, nor is it what I said. She takes a step back and sighs. I think I’m gonna go, he says.

She pulls on his t-shirt. Wait. He stops. I’m sorry, she continues. It’s fine, he says. It isn’t. You were a really chill guy and listened to me rambling and I got… I don’t know… Delusional, I guess… And well… It’s been nice to have someone to talk to. Sorry I left you with such a bad first impression. He turns towards her. It wasn’t that bad, it was just… Different, I suppose. She looks down. You are just being nice, saying that. He starts laughing. Let me make it up to you. Come on. Please. He begrudgingly accepts. Good, thank you. Sit down. What can I get you? Want something to drink? Eat? He hesitates as she continues to ramble. Anything is fine. She quickly goes into the kitchen and starts to making noise. He looks around the living room. It’s clean, apart from her a pair of pants on a chair. A few minutes later she comes out of the kitchen with a beer and a plate of some food thrown together.

She starts asking him questions about love, life, purpose, happiness and sorrows. As they sit, they continue talking, bemoaning the struggles of living from hypocrisy to irony and the uncertainty of the future from decisions past and present. He sits up to go to the bathroom. With a smile on his face, a warm feeling in his chest, he slowly makes his way as he looks around the apartment to get a better picture of it. Walking past a window he notices that there is no reflection. He turns towards the clock on the wall in the hallway to see what time it is. As he tries to concentrate, his vision turns blurry. He rubs his eyes and looks again, as the insides of the clock are melting into a disgusting white puss. He runs to the window again to look outside. There is nothing. The voice in his head starts getting louder and LOUDER. As he runs, opens the door and once more takes a plunge into the darkness…

Hope you liked this new chapter of I Write Sins… And if you did, don’t forget to like it and share it, because it would help a lot. As you can tell by now, I am experimenting with the style. Trying new things, touching on the surreal and horror elements of the story. So, I thank you for reading and coming on this weird journey about dreams. And if you’d like you can always donate to keep these short stories free at: https://www.paypal.me/RaulFO

I Write Sins... Not Tragedies 29 - Born to be Wild

Allison. He shakes her hand, looking into her eyes. Uhm… Right. Nice to meet you. She looks at him confused. Well? What’s your name? He lets go of her hand and laughs nervously. Jack, my name is Jack. She starts laughing. Like which Jack? Sparrow? Napier? Or the one from Titanic? Taken aback by her question he sits down and looks at her with embarrassment. She starts laughing hysterically. Really? From Titanic? How hilarious. So, you’re twenty too? And I don’t mean the number, obviously. He nods. And what are you working? She asks. Articles for whatever website accepts submissions. She quickly interrupts him. Oh, so you want to be a journalist or just create stuff like shitty clickbait articles? He laughs at her question. Neither. I want to write. But, writing doesn’t pay. No, what I mean is that finding a normal job as a writer is basically fiction or just as probable as winning the lottery. She looks at him with a kind face.

Let’s dance, she says. What? You’re twenty, I’m twenty. What’s wrong? He looks away from her as he scratches his brow. Fine, she says. It feels like this whole adulting thing was a mistake. Do you ever wonder why you were born? What were you born to do? Ah, what am I talking about, of course you don’t. You already know why you were born. To be a writer. Silence slowly sets between them. As they both look anywhere but at each other. She takes another gulp from the wine bottle, then extends her arm with the bottle towards him. He pushes he hand gently back, she shrugs and drinks some more. I don’t. She turns towards him. I don’t know why I was born. I don’t know what I am doing. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do it. Or if what I am doing is right. She groans. Well, now I can’t think that you’re a cool guy, if you don’t know the answer to this. She starts laughing, as he sits there looking at her.

Well, Jack from Titanic, it was nice to meet you, but I’m getting sleepy and unless you want to bone, I suggest that you go back to your place and get some sleep, she says bemused. He looks at her wondering if what she said was for real. Uhm… She turns towards him, puts her hands on the armrests. Looks him in the eyes. What? She whispers with a breath of alcoholic grapes expelled right into his nose. I think I’m going to leave. It was nice to meet you, Allison. She gets up, and starts to scream. Why are you like this? Man, what’s wrong with you? What’s wrong with everyone? Doesn’t anyone know how to have fun anymore? What is even the fucking point of all of this if we can’t live properly? Love properly, fuck properly, live life to the fullest. She continues to ramble, as he sits there listening, unsure of when it is okay to actually leave. And here I am with a total stranger in my apartment, and he doesn’t have the balls to kiss me. As she says that, he gets up and…

If you liked this chapter of the short story series I Write Sins… And if you did, please like it, share it and if you’d like to keep these short stories free you can always donate at: https://www.paypal.me/RaulFO

I Write Sins... Not Tragedies 28 - You Really Got Me

She flung open the door expecting to see the student again, only to be greeted by a rugged looking guy with little to no life behind his eyes. Hello. Could you please keep the music down? I am really having a hard time sleeping. She looks at him with the most disappointed look on her face. Not you too. What is it with you people? Where is your passion for life? Who ate your soul, man? He looks at her with his face almost falling off. It’s because… He gestures broadly at things around him. Oh, who cares? We’re the… She too gestures broadly at everything around her. Yes, but that’s exactly the problem. If… He once more opens his arms and with broad strokes points at everything. Don’t change, then what is even the point? She scoffs, puts her hand on his shoulder and screams. WHAT DOES THAT EVEN MEAN? The student from before comes out from his apartment, looks at them with the most annoyed look on his face. She apologizes and without thinking drags the man inside.

You can’t think like that. It’s going to ruin you and your life, she says while holding his hand. That’s dangerous thinking. She pulls him further in the apartment, sits him down on the couch, grabs her wine and continues. Don’t look at me like that, it’s true. Stress, anxiety, unhappiness does kill you faster than if you were happier, more optimistic and more open to the world around you. And I’m not saying that you should love each and every person you encounter. No. Who knows what a dick they were or are. No. I’m just saying that you can only give a little and get a little back, and that’s enough to make your life a bit better. He makes himself a bit more comfortable, leaning back against the couch. Yes, but you can’t live life that way. It isn’t possible to be happy and open all the time. It’s not normal. She looks at him with pity. I know, I never said that you shouldn’t be sad, or anything like that. But if you don’t escape it, you will be in a perpetual state of sadness, loneliness, depression.

He gets up, annoyed looks at her and tries to speak. What? She asks. It’s not that simple and you know that it is not that simple to change your entire life because someone said simply don’t be depressed anymore. She frustrated by his comment shouts. HEY! Listen to me, please. Her town slowly coming down, she continues. I understand, that’s why people commit suicide, but that’s also why people rely on friends, on a specialist, on a support group. Because it’s not easy, but nor is it or was ever your entire life. It is just a small part of the rest of your life. He rolls his eyes at those words. That’s so cliche and soupy… She gasps. You say that like it’s a bad thing. Cliches are a good thing sometimes. Because you know what to expect and you can’t be let down by something you expect, can you? He scratches his head in frustration. I guess… She laughs and reaches her hand out. By the way, my name is…

If you liked this chapter of the short story series I Write Sins… Not Tragedies, don’t forget to like it, share it, and as always, if you are feeling generous and want to keep these short stories free stories, you can always donate at: https://www.paypal.me/RaulFO