Soul

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I live under a bridge, surrounded by blues and smoke,

Book in one hand, coffee in the other,

Waiting for the rain to stop….

You’re early as always

Green eyes piercing through the fog,

Smiling at strangers…

I wish I were richer…to pay for your thoughts

I wish I were human….I wish I were God

The Jungle Analogy - The Stress Junkie

Stress junkies, vegetarian T-Rexes, always searching for a deadline.

The modern world is considered to be a jungle. The weakest animal perishes. But while there are those who literally fight for survival, roaming the streets, hunting for dead-end jobs to maintain the entire pack's integrity, there are also predators, the T-Rex clan, that mainly hunt for sport, preying on the weak.

And while these two species engage in daily battle, a new one emerges, a vegetarian T-Rex that in spite of its hunter trait, does not see the appeal in fighting the feeble. This special predator lusts for another kind of combat. And so it begins... the endless crusade of the stress junkie. Constantly searching for deadlines, this very unique animal, is empowered by stress. What the rest consider to be a panic attack, needed to be dulled by medication and the relocation to a spa, to the junkie it is no more than something to drive him further in this war.

http://www.flickr.com/photos/sauko/8144370805/

…Song…

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:The_Scream.jpg

I wake up every morning and build myself a mask of sanity
Over coffee,
Inhaling the aroma, trying to buy time
To fill every crack
With memories of you and linger in these foolish dreams.
For you are long since gone
And I am left alone , creating beauty from the remains
Of our shattered demons.

Girl with the Yellow Umbrella, a photo by ygchan on Flickr.

The yellow umbrella

He reached for the pack of Pall Mall on the nightstand. ‘Just one more … after this pack I quit’.  He didn’t usually prefer this brand, but alas, he could not find the one he liked.  Taking one cigarette out of the small blue pack, Gareth felt a little annoyed.  Although he knew what he was smoking, he missed the sound the little menthol ball of the Kent Click made under the light pressure of his teeth. This couldn’t possibly be the last pack as it tasted all wrong. 

It was always the same story with him. He wanted to quit, he did quit…over and over again…It was easy. Unlike his friends, he didn’t associate smoking with coffee. He could go out to a coffee shop with them and talk for hours at a time, sipping espresso while they surrounded themselves in layers of smoke. The problem arose when he got back home…To him, smoking went hand in hand with reading, with thinking, with writing.

And he was about to do just that… He fancied himself a writer, a poor example of one anyway. The only successful thing he ever wrote was ‘ The adventures of Professor Poopypants ’. It literally gave him an army of groupies that consisted of his seven year old sister and her friends, and that was 5 years ago. Now, an English major and an aspiring novelist, he felt the pressure to produce something. His professors always said he should just sit down and write, write every day. He did. It was crap. Somehow, after an extraordinary beginning, and it was always extraordinary…he got bored of his characters and killed them all.