The Delusional Puppetmaster

There is a small stage, with puppets on it, and a dark shadowy figure watching over them. The puppets are anxious, solemn, and even dead. These puppets represent the people, who have decided to take narcotics, but have taken it too far. Narcotics is the shadowy figure, wearing a mask with a smile, creating an illusion that what it does is perfectly fine and that having the more of it, the better. Making the puppets need more, making them greedy, messing with their minds, and killing them. The sky is dark for a reason: his is the atmosphere the people are in, a dark, dreaded, and cold world with nothing to give them warmth. They thought that the drugs would provide it, that the drugs would accept them, but what they thought was only determined by the mask the drugs wear.

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I had my black coffee cup in hand, soggy toasts in front of me, the quite hum of the coffee machine filling the empty pauses of the soft conversations filling the air, with the occasional clacking of cutlery, and a subtle smell of cigars. Sunday morning, the diner had big windows that overlooked the city below. Suits with no time, streams of red and white lights, the epitome of an inspirational place, but here I am. 88 stories in the air, the city skyline in front of me, the sun beams slowly crawling over its edge, and yet, nothing. I was in pursuit of a muse, or that’s what I convinced myself to believe. Cliché, that’s what all this is. My fingers have been hovering over the keyboard for over an hour, nothing. Everything that I wrote came out as a f***ed up poem. Something I kept erasing. I had enough of that crap. I knew from the moment I reluctantly decided to leave the warmth of my bed, to go eat some supposedly quality toasts in some billion dollar skyscraper, that the story wasn't going to end well. This wasn't me. I was looking for tragedy. A change, an escape.  So I shut my laptop and walked out. Coffee unfinished, toasts still soggy, clothes reeking of cigar smoke. My feet took me to the elevator; my fingers looked for the last story. The button lit. I wandered around until I found the staircase door, crisp morning air attacking my nostrils, burning my lungs, eyes closed, and eloquent strides towards the brink. It was all a blur, but it was calming. Then enveloped by a complete sense of calm, I found what I was looking for. I was in search of an ending, for my story.

Foggy Loop Skyline in B&W. 2010. Photograph. Chicago. By Doug Siefken. Web. <http://www.flickr.com/photos/siefken/5184707221/in/faves-29602190@N00/>.

Cold Floor

No matter how much I wanted to, I couldn’t do it.  There was no way I could possibly bring myself to a state of mind where it was ok. Everyone else does it, I thought. It didn’t help me at all. I turned over and pressed my pillow to my face. “ I refuse to get up”. My sister walked towards me and patted me on the leg.

“ Come on” she said “get up before you miss the bus.”

“No way,” I groaned into the pillow, trying to prolong the few moments of peace I had left before I was removed from my cocoon of warmth and happiness into the brutal world.  Like a baby being removed from its mother for the first time, I wanted to cry. I held in my tears as I placed my warm foot onto the cold, marble floor. In an instant, all the warmth and comfort was sucked out of my foot like a vacuum cleaner removing dust from small corners. Covering myself in my blanket I placed one foot next to the other. I felt completely empty. The cold and uncomfortable feelings pierced my soul. I stood up and took two steps forward. The cold floor is always the worst part.  The cold floor.

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"Cherish." Cherish. N.p., n.d. Web. 06 Dec. 2013.

That Morning

That Morning

Those cold feet on that cold floor in the morning when you take your first few steps out of the bed just make you want to get in your warm covers again, but the smell of that warm coffee drags you up. I look outside and see cold calm weather. It’s grey and indeed cold.  “Rough week,” they say. At least it’s what I heard. Why should I go to school? That’s what I ask myself every morning. Why not make this day different and not go to school at all. Break the usual and make that day a Sunday. I have a headache; it’s like having an angel at one side and a demon on the other telling me what to do and what not. “I have a history exam today though, wake up!“ said the angel. “Who cares, history will never, ever change so let it wait; no hurry,” replies the demon. I am stuck here. Should I put my shoes on? Or should take two more minutes of peace and quiet.  I close my eyes and think. The next thing I saw when I opened them, was the clock. 11:11 am! Might be my lucky day, I thought. I open my window and the cold air from outside slowly came in. I took a deep breath and looked up, and then I felt it.

"Download Cute Good Morning Wallpaper: Wallpaper Cute Good Morning Coffee Cup Teddy Bear Window." High Defenition Wallpaper Cute Good Morning Wallpaper Wallpaper Cute Good Morning Coffee Cup Teddy Bear Window Comments. N.p., n.d. Web. 06 Dec. 2013.