Dead town

I am never looking forward to going there. But I worked in that fucking town. I guess I had to. It always gave me the crips. There were some weird vibes in this town, and I always felt the strangest feeling telling me that I don’t belong there. I always felt like a stranger in this town, even after three years of working there. This town and this job! They both had me, and I am very much sick with both of them. Now, after the pandemic, things looked really rough out here. I was back in town for business, and it all looked way too desperate and much more depressing. This was a dead town now.

It was never a very populated or crowded town per se, but now it looked almost empty. Cars are driving on the road, but no people are seen walking on the sidewalks. There are very few people around, period. And those people you do randomly meet, they don’t look too happy or too normal either. This is a city full of big corporate offices, parking lots, hotels, and poor, disadvantaged, primarily black locals. These locals certainly did not work in any of these fancy offices. They probably never worked since there was no place for them to do so. They just survived on the government support money. God bless America!

Since the commuters stopped coming in, many of the local businesses shut down. Everyone has been working from home in the last year and a half. This is the death of big corporate mentality or rather the death of the traditional nine-to-five lifestyle. All major corporations were now following the work mentality of those unconventional tech start-ups who allowed their people to work from anywhere in the world. It didn’t matter, as long as the job was getting done. Corporations were firmly against that flexibility since they never trusted people and always wanted to be in complete control monitoring their employees closely. Those fucks!

There was a shit load of work to do for everyone, even more than pre-pandemic in many cases, but the fact that you could do it all at home, no commuting, no in-person meetings, no bullshit, was kind of liberating for the average folks. Corporations worried how in the fuck is this all going to work out. But it did and to their best advantage. I’ve got used to this new work-no-life-no-balance style, but at least I didn’t have to come to this God-forsaken place for so long. It always reminded me of the town which will eat you alive once you are in, and you will never return to where you came from. One will never be the same again. The darkness, the depression, the desperation on the background of tall corporate highrises gave it all a sharp socio-economic contrast.

Walking these streets, I felt like this is what being or living in the simulation must look like. Everything just felt foreign and surreal. The strangest thing was that even in a poor town like this, you never felt in danger. It still felt reasonably safe because of how poor and disadvantaged those people were. Looking at them, one felt compassion and sorrow rather than angst and fear. Occasionally, I’ll see some folks walking down the street, carrying some bags, not sure if those were shopping bags or they just taking some garbage with them around. Poor people always brought some sort of bags with them all the fucking time. They walked somewhere they seemed to know well. They’ve been here a while. Now there is no escape; there is nowhere to go. Maybe they got used to it? Perhaps this is what home feels like to them? Maybe I am the only one who feels estranged being here? No judging the poor folks, but rather feeling sad for them. I am always very sorry for the poor and disadvantaged once. There’s got to be the way out of this somewhere, somehow.

I worked for one of the major companies in town, the major bank institution. There were two significant tall buildings right by the downtown area, which looked very impressive considering its surrounding. They looked like the two tall office buildings packed with people of different ranks, and they must’ve been swamped and very much occupied in those buildings working towards something, working for the system. I knew the truth. These buildings were there for the show-off reason, just an illusion. Even in pre-pandemic times, these buildings were semi-occupied. My floor was half-full back then, now it was one-third of what it has been. There were ghost floors as well, with no people there at all. There were floors where just a handful of people were located. What was the need for it all? Why keep all these buildings if not able to fill them with employees? The answer is that they needed to have the image of “the big guy in town.” The more space they occupied physically, the more powerful the corporation should’ve seemed to be or wanted to look like they were. I knew this all was bullshit a long time ago. I was constantly spinning those ideas in my head when looking at these dead, tall, empty, useless buildings with no soul and not even enough people’s souls to occupy them.

A tax-free state sounds excellent if you are a corporation. They created all those laws to satisfy their hungry needs. These corporate fucks!. When you are just a regular person living here, you probably wish they charged those corporations more taxes so that this town wouldn’t look so depressed. Nobody cared. Even if there were no people left here at all, this city would thrive. They had plenty of offices and companies registered there, that it didn’t matter. They made it all work, just for them. They always do. Overall, these large corporations still employed a boatload of people to their advantage, and no government could tell them anything. The government works with those corporations hand-in-hand. They need each other. Somehow I was employed here. For some weird, strange reason, I was part of the evil of the evilest organization on the planet, the bank.

How did I get here? I wish I knew. I always think about it as a random coincidence. I never thought about working here or in any similar organization at all. But I guess they had a job opening, and I needed a job at some point in time. So we found one another like the two lost souls in the lonely, desperate poor-man’s world. It wasn’t the best match for me, but it was something. Compared to anything I made before, the pay seemed great, and the short-term commitment certainly worked for me. It started as a short-term contract, and I never hoped it to last any longer. I was wrong. Three months of the initial contract got “extended” now into three years and counting. Fuck, I’ve got myself deep into this hellhole. I also have a family to support, and oddly enough, I am the only supporting member of my family. I have no choice but to grind. I am the primary provider, and that is what you do. I am fucking grinding at this, struggling and suffering for my sake and my family’s sake. Looking at the not-even-two-year-old, I couldn’t take too much risk. It was easier to stay, to be part of the system. The man is as good as the choices he makes. The man always has to grind to live.

I never knew what the soul-crushing job actually was or felt like until recently. Until I got involved with this organization, which probably still seems like a prestigious job to many, I never knew how miserable I could be. This one got me and got me real bad. The depression, the stress, the anxiety, the bullshit were endless. The workload or the sense of the work I have to do is less and less, and the mindfuck is overwhelmingly accumulating with the speed of light. There is so much a man can take. There is only so much tolerance, and patience left. It felt like this is the depression talking; this is not me. Shortly, this has become me, the new me, the fucked-up one with no desire to do anything, with no satisfaction received from life, with no personal life at all. All I had was misery. The fucking anguish of mind and soul and sadness that my life gets wasted like that, for that goddamn paycheck, for that goddamn job, for that goddamn security. Was that all worth it?

I’ve tried to find a new job with very little to no success. It seems like there is no place for the wicked. It looks like the gods were not done with my punishment just yet, and I was due for some more. I’ve accepted the challenge. Fuck me up, folks, here I am. I’ve had so much of it already that nothing scares me anymore. Bring it on! At some point earlier this year, when I decided I had to move, I had to escape. I hoped that I would be out even before this time around. I never felt like coming back to the offices again, hybrid schedules or not. I didn’t give a fuck. This is not my shit, not my town, not my passion, not even my life. I have been stuck in this fucking simulation here, struggling to move forward and break through all that corporate bullshit.

I have a free, company-paid-for garage at the hotel garage nearby, and I have about a two-block walk. It is the weirdest and most useless walk ever. These two blocks, right by the courthouse and the police headquarters, are very much uneventful and dull. I occasionally saw some strange people entering and walking out of that court building. There are always some peculiar poor folks hanging around it. I walk this block like I own it, but I don’t want to own it. There is nothing there to own. There is nothing there to look at. As you drive up to the city, taking the exit, there is a sign on the sidewalk “Wilmington. The city where everyone can be somebody.” That is a very indistinct slogan. It looks like you can become as wretched as most of the folks living there. What a fucking bullshit.

There is a cigarette in my hand, the earbuds in my ears, and the black shades on my face as I walk through this little dead town. My senses are getting high, and my heart gets tight as I walk past, and I see the life around me that is tough to swallow. Even after three years, I am still a stranger in this town. Walking to and from the office, I still feel these same strange and weird vibes. I just can’t get used to this misery and social tragedy of this town. I’m hoping the cigarette and the music will make this short walk more enjoyable. I hope to get distracted temporarily while I am walking by. But they only help as much as they do.

The sun is still high up in the sky and burns through every living soul in this dead town as it does burn through me. The air is dense and hot, and the sun in the late afternoon looks like poison. I cross the street with the cloud of smoke high un in the sky. There are some locals across the street walking into nowhere, looking sad and hopeless. I glance at them and then look straight ahead; I walk toward the garage, towards my escape. Some five-six minutes later, and I will be there, sitting in my car, driving off of the garage and out of this city into my life. I will be leaving this fucking god-forsaken place one more time. I hope every time it will be the last one.

Poem: Life

I woke up early in the morning
Because I wanted to see more of this life
And I wanted to use my time wisely as
I know we only have so much to live
And so much to see.
It is terrifying to acknowledge that
Sooner or later, it all be gone
And we all be gone
And the world will never be the same.
And us will never be the same
As it all is moving around, changing,
Adjusting, disappearing with the sunsets,
And never emerging with the sunrises again.
The fresh cold air feels like life,
It feels like I need
More of it.
The grey-blue sky above feels like home,
It is endless, and it is always up there, somewhere.
It is time to make the changes; it is time to live
I wish I knew the proper way,
I wish I knew the secret, but I don’t.
I go on day by day, like so many others
Wondering,
What the next day will bring?
And as the day wraps up, we see
That it will bring nothing more
Then you’ve tried to accomplish.
Waiting is a waste of time and
Wating kills time and you, slowly.
There are so much to see and so much to live
So many sunsets and sunrises and
So much of the fresh air in the early mornings.
Enjoy it while it lasts, enjoy it while you can
We’re not going to be here forever
And there is no way of taking any of this with you
Once we’re gone.
It all will stay here, the same, making
Others wondering about it and enjoying it.

Searching for purpose

Things don’t always go the way we wanted, and sometimes it seems like they go against us. My shit keeps going off the rails quite often. The minute I start enjoying what I have accomplished, the ground begins shaking under my feet, and I have to run for covers. I always have to run somewhere, anywhere, run away. Everything seems to be coming and going in cycles, and these cycles and circles just keep spinning and turning and flipping my life upside down. Sometimes it just feels like the gods are fucking with me by not giving me a clear mind; they keep me confused and searching without even a hint of where to go or what the hell to look out for.

With all the right intentions I keep and always try to make things happened, I am striving for success and trying to make things better for my family and me. But there are moments like this where I have just stuck. I don’t even know what’s stopping me, what’s against me, and why in the fuck I get lost so often. It just happens so. I look around; the wife is here, the babe, the apartment, the neighborhood, I am here too. What’s wrong, then? There is the same face in the mirror every day, which keeps getting older and sadder. The same fresh and cold water in the sink has no taste or smell. The clouds are always there up in the sky. They are, too, all the same, dull and meaningless. They come and go and then come and go again. This is the movement of life.

I’ve always been told the right way of doing things and the proper way of going about my life. And I’ve followed. Now I am here in my life where just some ten years ago, I was dreaming about and striving to be. I got here, and it is not much fun. It is the same rough life that always has been. There is always endless bullshit to deal with. Then I realized that everything only seems great and exciting in the distance. Once you’ve reached your destination, you know that the satisfaction isn’t there, and you continue to move on, going for more, looking out for new excitement, new goals, new purpose.

Then I find myself sitting in the dark room alone, staring into the darkness, thinking about why shit doesn’t feel right. The past comes back up in my mind, and I wonder how I dealt with similar challenges. How I got to where I am now, how I beat the status quo, how I made my own way here. And now, where do I go from here? It is easy to stick in the past and dwell on it and reminisce for nostalgic reasons. I do that from time to time. But I know that I cannot remain there for too long. Life is moving fast. Life waits for no one. I need to catch up; I need to keep moving along with it or advance in my own direction, but I have to keep moving.

It is amazing how time flew by and how fast I grew up older and how many different things in my life changed with it. I am not too old, and I am still young and young at heart, but I am not that careless youngster who used to have nothing but big dreams about the future and couldn’t wait until growing up to be somewhere else to what grown-ups do. Now I have arrived. I am a grown-up with a corporate job, family, child, bills to pay, and freedom of choice, and some sort of financial freedom. There are aspirations to become a writer and to write I love. I love to get up early in the morning before my head is filled with the daily garbage and put my morning thoughts and ideas on the page. It is mainly a hobby, though; nothing serious. But it could be. I need to focus on it more and work on it more. It all depends on me. I have to do it.

Meanwhile, I am more worried about finding a new job because this one is just fucking eating me alive piece by piece every day. The minute I get comfortable with one job I have, shit starts to go sideways, and I am looking for something else, again and again, and again. This trend is always the same. This part of my life and this fucking trend has to change. On the one hand, this keeps the bills paid on the other, drives me fucking crazy way too much.
I don’t know if there is a job that I would love to do for a while. Probably not. Every job gets dull with time, and with more bullshit being added to the mix, the more frustrating, annoyed, and disinterested everything becomes. But it all depends on me and how I am reacting to it and the choices I make afterward. I know I have good inspirations and good intentions for everything, but a lot of time, the shit is not rolling my way, and then I struggle, and I lose my focus, and I am back to the ground zero, thinking about why am I here?

The forever question, my fucking purpose in life, keeps coming back to me quite often. One moment I feel like everything is going my way and the right way, and the next, I have no idea or no control over anything. What should I do? Keep adjusting to the current flow? Get the fuck out of that flow? Mind my own business? Or suffer in the name of a secure, humble living? Somebody once said, if something feels wrong, it probably is wrong. There is another saying that goes something like this, where you are now is the result of who you were back then and what did or didn’t do that brought you here. Butchering this great saying in my own way, but the just of it is there. There are a lot of great things that I did in my life that I am proud of. There are many that I wish I did more of or started sooner, and there are plenty that I wish I’d never done. Everything always has been in perspective, and there are always quite a few things on the scales for me to evaluate the importance of and decide to go after, prioritize or leave the fuck out.

Somehow I ended prioritizing shit that now eats me alive. Shit, that is disturbing me from doing the very few things that really bring joy and purpose into my life. Eventually, I am more involved in shit that is not letting me live the life that I want. That shit keeps me away from my dreams and inspirations and prevents me from making critical steps in life. This is a trap. Fucking corporate trap. Life’s trap. This fucking economy, the job market, the corporations, banks, small business, technology, and everything else is out of their fucking mind and out of control. The people factor is not essential anymore to anybody; it is just the checkboxes on the list that had to be checked and the spreadsheets on the screen which have to balance out. I get that. I understand that, but somehow I am finding myself in this situation again and fucking again, sacrificing my life for the shit that makes me so much more miserable. Why? Because I am a moron. This is an honest answer. Because I cannot yet or have not yet made that right decision towards my personal best interests. I am choosing the safest route all the time.

Maybe this is the time, right here and right now, to figure out and make the tough choice? Make the choice that is mine and works for me? Works for my purpose? Maybe the safe way of living is not really leading me to nowhere? Maybe there is no safer way in anything, and everything has a fucking trap and has second meanings? I think about this situation where I am so lost and have no idea of any directions moving forward that something led me here, and somebody wants me to take the lead and make a change.

The change is always constant, and the change is what has to happen all the time, and I have to change with it. I need to figure out what that change will be and embrace it. I need to have a clear mind about my values and my priorities and how I can be the best me I can be today. I think I am on the right way. I know my heart is in the right place. It is just a matter of time to get these depressing black and hazy clouds out of my fucking mind to clearly see what is out there for me what I should go after. It is still dark, too dark to see at this time…


Poem: A hundred sunsets

I’ve seen a hundred sunsets
Trying to catch a perfect one.
There were many great once
But, not a single perfect one.
It didn’t matter though,
I’ve seen a lot of them already and
That has to count for something.
There are only so many
Sunsets you can see.
It only takes a few minutes
For the sun to disappear
Below the horizon and
Drown in the ocean
But these moments are worth a lifetime.
It keeps me here for another day
Wondering
In the silence of the ocean breeze,
Watching a hundred sunsets disappear.

To us

It was night and dark outside. She and I were on the beach in Miami. I had a glass of red wine in my hand, and she had a cup of hot black tea. We were not married then, but we both knew our love was real and deep, and it will last for as long as it could.

The beach was almost empty, and the ocean was dark with just some sparks here and there, reflecting the city lights on the water and the moon and the stars in the deep, dark, faraway sky. We were silent, sitting close to each other as one. We did not need to talk at all; we understood everything at that moment. It was love. It was us. It was our future together, which we didn’t know yet. But we hoped it would be good for both of us. It will have us together.

I was inspired at the moment, and I knew it is one of a kind. I never had any moments like that before. I knew gods gave me a chance to think and to dream and to see what I wanted in this life. I never had time to focus on thinking about life and the future, and I wanted to do with my life. She was there near me, and that was enough. I was there for her, and I was enough.

I sipped on my glass, looking at the dark ocean. There was a star in the sky, and I saw one falling down for the first time. I knew this is a proper time to make a wish, and I did. I wished to be successful and rich and famous. It was a bullshit wish, but I felt like it was a necessary thing to do. I didn’t care about being rich or famous or successful because I never was one, and I didn’t even know what it all meant. It was just an opportunity to do whatever I wanted and never worry about money, prosperity, impressing anybody, and career, jobs, or anything at all. Life was young and simple then. Worry less.

I wanted to live my life the best I could. How I liked it to be. My understanding of life and its purpose was limited. A young man’s heart is always on fire, and his soul is full of adventure. It wasn’t about being correct or intelligent all the time or only making the right decisions. Wise decision-making usually takes much more time and comes with some life experience. I didn’t have that back then. I had my heart and soul full of adventures and my love next to me, and her dreams and passions. We were in love, and we were in our moment, creating our moment together. We were us.

It is interesting how life plays games with you and what one has to go through until we find ourselves, all the struggles and broken hearts, arguments, fights, and misunderstandings. Everything else that goes along and eats a person alive. Being with the wrong person for some time and then understanding that you’ll never get your time back and never getting your youth back feels sad. But, the sadness filled with understanding and life experiences that make adults out of young people teach them lessons that nobody else can teach. I’ve just had a bad relationship experience behind me, and now I was with my future and the love of my life, sitting on the dark beach at night, drinking my red wine, feeling in love, and enjoying every second of that moment, every breath of that fresh ocean air.

I felt some sort of comfort, and I think she did as well, the comfort of having the right person next to you and the comfort of being in love with one another. I wanted to keep her with me forever. I wanted her to be the love of my life. I knew early that she was the one, and I needed to hold her close to me. When you get those kinds of feelings, you are often right, and you have the right person next to you. I didn’t know when that it will take us six more years before we will get married and three more years before she will give birth to our son. We stuck together through thick and thin, and we are still together, and I hope we always will.

“To a better future together, babe. I love you more than I ever loved anyone else, and I always want to be with you!” I raised my glass to a toast.
“I love you too, honey,” she said, “to us!”

The greatest writer of our time: Mark McGuire. Part II

With his fame, there also came the consequences. He was always busy with appearances and readings and presentations and speeches and meetings and phone calls. He never, since his last book, had much time for anything, not even writing. His family suffered because of it as well. They became the most celebrated and well-known families in Philadelphia, but his family took a big hit on the inside. He was never around the home too much or too often. He was always on the move and busy with something else. He had affairs that his wife was aware of, and this was the reason for their divorce. They divorced two years ago. Now each lived their own lives. The wife kept the place on the Rittenhouse square and the house in the suburbs, and Mark kept the Old City’s condo and the beach house. Their son was now in college and lived on campus by himself. He visited both mom and dad whenever he needed something, mostly when he needed the money. He was a celebrity on his campus and was busy managing the school, friends, and multiple girlfriends. Mark had numerous girlfriends himself. There was always a fan who would like to meet him and ask about the writing and a piece of advice and eventually have sex with a successful writer himself. The phone rang again.

“Hi, is this Mark McGuire?” the voice asked.
“Speaking, how may I help you?” Said, Mark.
“I would like to have you on our show in New York sometime next week. We are doing a round of interviews with successful people in today’s culture, and we would very much like to have you on.”
“Ok, I think I could make it. When is that interview going to take place?”
“Next Tuesday night, we will be live.
“Ok, sounds good.”
“Thank you, sir. Have a great day.”
“Likewise. Good-bye.”

It has been just another afternoon, and Mark knew that the writing wasn’t happening for him today. He felt helpless and hungry. Mark needed some good food, steak, maybe? He called downtown Del Frisco for a reservation. They always had the best table for him. Every time he called or just showed up, a friendly waiter and valet parking person smiled and greeted him. Mark drove his Porsche up to the restaurant’s entrance, leaving the car with the valet before entering the building.

“Good afternoon, Mr. McGuire!” Said the waiter greeting Mark at the entrance, smiling like a hundred-dollar tip.
“Good afternoon,” said Mark.
“How are you today, sir?”
“I am well, thank you. Just a little bit hungry.” Mark said, smiling back at the waiter.
“We will take care of that for you, sir. Please, follow me,” said the waiter and guided Mark to his table. Today he was seated in the far-right corner. It felt more personal and private, just like he liked it.
“May I have a double shot of Johnny Walker Blue label and Bone-in prime strip with brussels sprouts, please.”
“How would you like your steak done?”
“Medium well, please.”
“Will do. Ok, thank you, sir. Your drink will be out in a minute, and you will have your steak ready for you as you like it.” Said the waiter leaving his table smiling.

There were not too many people at the restaurant at this time around. There were a few other visitors here and there, some business lunches, and few affluent locals who loved to eat a steak for the late lunch. Mark’s drink arrived, and he sipped on it. It felt great. The expensive whiskey always tasted like a victory, like success like the fresh air. Mark loved his whiskey. The steak arrived sometime later, and Mark ate it with passion. He ordered a couple more whiskeys, drained his glass, paid, and went outside. The valet brought his car. “Here you go sir, have a great day.” “Thank you, you as well.” Said Mark and rolled down the fifteenth street to Locust and the Philadelphia orchestra parking lot. They were performing Brahms at 3 pm. Mark loved Brahms. He parked and went to the hall.

After the performance ended, there were standing ovations, as usual. There was something about watching the symphony music played live. One could witness how these most fabulous sounds in the world were made right there in front of their eyes. All the musicians played their instruments perfectly, manufacturing their perfect sound with their gentle gestures against the instruments.  Mark was fascinated. He was a regular visitor at the Philadelphia orchestra for quite some time. After the orchestra, he decided to drive around the City. He drove his car on Broad Street, the Avenue of Arts, the most luxurious and beautiful and artistic streets in Philadelphia. He watched people walking on the sidewalk; life moved around him.

Every person had their own story. Mark saw some homeless people sitting on the pavement begging for money; there were plenty of them in Philly all around. He drove down to JFK boulevard and Market street, observing everything. Driving around the City without any directions was like therapy for Mark. It was a great time to think about his life, city life, and others people’s lives. He played some classical music in his car, which always helped to clear his mind. Mark remembered how he was driving around the City in his old car when he was a young lad. After a stressful day at school, he would get in his car, get some coffee and cigarettes, drive around and just observe everything. Often, he would find himself going through the neighborhoods he has never been to before. The diversity of Philadelphia was fascinating. The neighborhoods built by the poor emigrants; everyone lived in their tiny communities, preserving the culture and the tradition of their homeland while trying to make it in America. This feeling was very familiar to Mark; his parents raised him like that.

His parents came here with nothing but a dream and high hopes for a better future for him. Even though they were not around anymore, Mark still remembered to visit them at the cemetery and leave some flowers for them. “You would be proud of me now, mother, dad. I did make it; I am a famous writer now. You said back in the day that I should better focus on the business career and try to find a job in my field of Economics, but I just loved writing so much more. Look at me now, and the writing made me a great man, the most celebrated writer in Philadelphia. I hope you are doing ok up there. Please pray for my family and me. Please ask God to help me write. I will be back to revisit you, I promise, I’ll visit soon. Take care of you both now.”

His first book, “Immigrant Song,” was about the life of an immigrant family in Philadelphia who struggled to live up to their American dream. This book was his first outbreak and his first success. The book was a story of underdogs, about endless struggle, misery, hope, and continuous perseverance. The first book was based on Mark’s personal experience. All these struggles shaped him to be the man and the writer he became. He forgot about it all a long time ago. The City was different back then. It wasn’t like it is now. Everything had a sad, depressing tone, and everything was colorless, gray, and muddy. The City seemed dangerous and nothing like it is now. There wasn’t much of “the brotherly love” left in this place back then, and even now, sometimes it seems to be the case. Everyone was fighting for their place under the sun, for their success, trying to survive. For Mark McGuire, love had a different meaning. Everyone loved him, even if he hasn’t written anything lately. It didn’t matter to the people. Once someone breaks through the regular bullshit and poverty into the world of recognition and fame and luxury, one becomes a different kind of human. You feel untouchable, indestructible, and you think above everybody and everything. Maybe that was the path of his self-destruction and creative misery?

On his way home, his son called. “Dad, I need a few hundred bucks. Can I stop by your place sometime today?”
“Hey son, how’s life? Sure, stop by. I’ll be home in about 35 minutes.” Said, Mark.
“Ok, thanks, dad. I am alright, taking this girl out tonight. I need some cash.”
“I got you, son. Stop by later then. Ok?”
“Ok. See you soon, dad. Thanks.”

Mark returned home, open the fridge, and got himself a bottle of beer. He sat on his couch watching through the window overlooking the City. He wanted to relax a bit and wait for his son to come over. His phone rang again. It wasn’t his son; it was his ex-wife.

“Hey Mark, my lawyer sent you some papers to sign. Did you get them?”
“I’ve been doing great sweetheart, how about you?”
“Mark, I’ve been same old great, thanks for asking. Can you please sign and return the documents?”
“Maybe I can. Do I want to do that? Absolutely not. Why? Because I don’t care.”
“Mark, can you stop it already, please? Just sign the damn papers, and let’s part ways once and for all. Shall we?”
“Sure, we shall. I just cannot wait. How’s your new boyfriend doing? He still lives under my roof on Rittenhouse square?”
“Mark, stop it! This is not your business. This is my life now, my private life, and I shall not respond to you and your stupid questions.”
“Of course, You don’t owe me anything. Somehow it is me who is in debt with everyone else. Have a great day, babe, ok?” Mark said and dropped the phone. He loved to drive his ex-wife crazy, especially now during the final stages of their official split and going through this long and tedious separation process.
“Asshole!” Said Jane angrily. “What an asshole!”

Mark chuckled, sitting on the couch thinking about this conversation. He thought about that folder which he received in the mail last week. Mark never bothered to open it after he saw the law office name and address on it. “Fuck, that, he thought, you, assholes can wait. And you too, honey.”
An hour passed. Mark was still on the couch sucking on his beer listening to some good old rock-n-roll tunes. Then the doorbell rang.

“Yes?”
“Dad, it’s me.”
“Ok, coming,” said Mark opening the door and greeting his son.
“What’s up, kid? I haven’t seen you in a while. How’s life?”
“I’ve been busy with school, dad. You know, it takes a lot of time.”
“Yeah, and chasing girls does as well, right?” Mark chuckled.
“Yes, it does,” Jason responded with a shy smile on his face.
“So, can you lend me some money? I am swamped and need to do a few things before tonight?”
“What a rush son, are you hungry? Do you want to grab something?”
“No, thanks, I’m good.”
“Ok, here you go,” Mark reached for his home safe and pulled a six hundred dollars and gave it to his son.
“Thanks, Dad. I really appreciate it.”
“No problem. Does your mother give you any money?”
“Yes, she does. I’ve already asked her for some earlier this week.”
“Oh, ok. Thanks for stopping by, son. I hope we can grab lunch or dinner sometime soon?”
“Yes, that we should. I’ll let you know when I’ll sort the school stuff out.”
“Sounds good. Take care, son, and it was good to see you as always.”
“You too, Dad,” Jason said, hugging his father, the greatest writer in the world. He walked out of Mark’s place, closing the doors behind him.

“Kid, you grew up so fast,” said Mark to himself, wondering, locking the doors and returning to his beer bottle. “I remember when you were so young, and your mother and I changed your diapers and carried you around the house singing songs and playing stupid childing tunes and cartoons, anything to keep you entertained and happy. Especially tough was to keep you from crying. And you did cry a lot. I couldn’t write at home for some time because of it. I had to relocate to this place from our beautiful suburb’s house to write. Eventually, this place became my writing mecca. Every time I came down here, I was able to write. Every time I brought my ex-wife here, we had the best sex ever. Every time I brought any other girl after my Ex, I had a great time. This place is full of good memories for sure. Now that the writing is gone, not too many things could make me happy again. We all were happy back in the day. Now we all grew up, changed, and each is full of their own bullshit. How did we get here? Who knows?”

Nothing happened at the typewriter an hour later either. Mark stared at the blank page, sipped on his whiskey, and still, nothing came. His phone rang again. “Fuck! – thought Mark, the damned phone always rings at the wrong time all the time.”

“Mark’s here. Hello.”
“Hi babe, are you lonely tonight?” It was one of his mistresses on the line who was indeed lonely that night.
“Hi, Anna. I am lonely, but I am kind of busy tonight.”
“Busy writing?”
“Busy not writing. Just trying to get me there, you know. I think I’ve lost it. I don’t know what the fuck is going on with me lately anymore.” Mark sounded desperate yet very serious. Just enough to kill all the companionship requests without explaining too much.
“I feel sorry for you, babe. I just wanted to be with you tonight. I thought maybe there is something I can help you with. You know, take the edge off, relax a little bit?”
“Yeah, that’s what I need, except that I don’t even have the edge anymore. When I used to have it, I wrote days in and out. Shit. Never mind me. Sorry.”
“No, it’s ok, no worries. If you want to be alone, it’s your wish. Call me later if you change your mind. I’m staying home tonight, alone and horny so that you know.”
“Thanks for a boner, sweaty. I really appreciate it. I’ll be in touch. I just got to go back to work here. Have a good night, babe, alright?, Don’t get too bored out there.”
“Good night, Mark McGuire, to you as well. I hope to see you soon. Love you.”
“Ok, bye, Anna.”
“Bye, Mark.”

The phone went dead, and Mark was alone again. It felt strange that this girl, Anna, his mistress, is the only one who truly wants his attention. Mark poured himself another drink, grabbed a cigar from his cigar case, chopped the end off, and went on the balcony. It was getting dark outside already, the air felt fresh, and the City was getting into the evening blues. He puffed on his cigar, looking at the view of the City, sipping on his whiskey, and thinking about her. “Anna is friendly to me all the time. Was there a single time that she was a bitch? No, I cannot remember. Even when I ignored her on multiple occasions, she still came back to me with love, passion, and affection. Oh, Mark McGuire, what are you doing to these women? Why everybody has to suffer around you? Am I this bad, or is it whiskey talking? There was no return to my wife, and I don’t even want to. It just feels like getting back home, back to my family. But what is my family anymore? My parents have died, they had a decent and challenging life, but they lived it proudly. My wife has a boyfriend and hates my guts. My son has his life to live and his priorities. And what about me? I am a middle-aged man, lonely as hell, trying to put my life in order. It is just a cigar and a glass of whiskey with me here. Why did I push Anna away yet another time? She is always so nice to me. She always has been. Maybe this is it? Perhaps I need to be less of a macho and more like a grown man? I guess I should. I think I do. I need to get my shit together quickly. I am Mark McGuire, the hottest writer in town and the country!

I wonder when I will start writing again? Maybe this cigar will help. He looked at his Rolex, and it was showing him 9:45 pm. The night was still young, and there is a possibility that the writing will come. Looking at the City at night was a fantastic view. It has always inspired Mark. And he just loved it. That’s why he spent most of his time in this place. He remembered the days when he arrived in Philadelphia for the first time. It was a magnificent experience. This place was so much different and more prominent, and brighter and broader when his tiny hometown in the middle of nowhere. He remembered his struggles and how his parents worked hard to make things work, pay the bills, and put the food on the table. He remembered when his mother told him, “One day you’ll get your education and will help your old parents. You are a smart kid, Mark. I have faith in you.” These words felt like a hot coffee with whiskey down his through warming down his chest and burning him on the inside. Something clicked. The cigar went into the ashtray. He put the coffee on brewing, poured himself some in the cup, and went back to the typewriter. He sipped his coffee, looking straight at the page, his eyes red and tired but focused. He put his hands up and started to type. One word followed another, one line followed another, and so on. He wrote through the night without even thinking of stopping or taking a break. Mark was alive again. He felt it in the air. Mark felt it in his soul. He was indeed the greatest writer in the world, Mark McGuire.

The greatest writer of our time: Mark McGuire. Part I

Mark McGuire – the greatest living writer of the present day. What a talent, what a man, what a writer! The man who wrote so good that he humbled the entire literature world, and all the Philadelphia residents cherished him more than anything else. Some would say he was more popular around here than Rocky. That’s how vital Mark McGuire has been to his native Philadelphia, the City of Brotherly Love, the City that gave birth to this great man, this great writer, the genius of the written word, the writer with a capital “W.” This writer wrote better than anybody else in the entire world. Hundreds and thousands of tourists were coming to Philadelphia, first and foremost, to see the City where the great writer lives, to walk the streets where the great writer walks, to get a drink in the bars where the great writer drinks occasionally, and just breathe the air of the City infused with such a quality talent. A ton of inspiring writers would get inspired coming to Philly. Here it is, this is the place, the City that can encourage anybody. Philadelphia, the City that can make you a great somebody. Mark’s name has been part of the local news almost every day. There were reports on the late night’s news coverage covering the day in the life of the most famous writer in the United States of America and the most known and recognized writers and residents of Philadelphia, Mark McGuire. Even though it was hard to spot him wondering the City during the daylight, he was still here; he was around, he was home.

Mark was born in late August of 1973 to his emigrant parents, who came here from Eastern Europe in search of a better life. Mark grew up like a regular American kid in an immigrant family. He was a bright child growing up, a good-looking young man, and everything was alright with him. There was something about him that would make one stop and take a closer look and listen to what he has to say, or just to be around this great man. Mark graduated from a public high school and enrolled in one of the best business schools in Philadelphia City to pursue a degree in Economics. His parents were broke, and he didn’t have enough money to get himself better clothes, a better car, or a better anything. With his outstanding grades and some government help, he enrolled into Drexel, one of the top business schools in Philadelphia. He needed a great school and a great work experience to make sure he’ll get a good-paying job in the future and can help his parents to get old and retire in comfort. His study was tough on him in the beginning. The wealth of knowledge was overwhelming, the pace was too fast, and he often thought that getting into this school was a big mistake. He still had to make his parents proud and pushed himself harder. Eventually, he graduated after four years of torture and was happy to graduate finally.

He has learned some Economics and general business studies, but the most crucial class was English. He took the English class dedicated to the work and life of John Steinbeck. Mark was fascinated with John Steinbeck. While learning about Steinbeck’s life, it seemed to him that a writer’s life was always full of unpredictable, exciting, and exotic events and unusual people who eventually will help shape you as a writer and inspire you to write. Ultimately, life will inspire one to write. In his English class, Mark’s assigned reading was “The Log from the Sea of Cortez,” the novel about Steinbeck’s expedition to the Gulf of California in 1940 to collect and learn about various marine species while writing about his observations and experiences. Mark felt that this is something that he would like to do as well. The life of a writer, Steinbeck’s indeed, must’ve always involved some drama in personal life, drinking, smoking, travels, discoveries, struggles, misery, and desperate writing itself. All these things he will live through eventually. All these things will ultimately influence his writing and will make him as great as Steinbeck has been.

Mark read this book with excitement regardless of plenty of biological terminologies. Mark loved this expedition’s whole idea and thrill, especially Steinbeck’s remarks and thoughts he wrote about in that book. Mark reading “The log from the sea of Cortez,” thought about how fascinating it must’ve been to be John Steinbeck, the most significant American author of his time, living his life full of adventures and excitement while being almost broke financially and while his personal life was falling apart. Nonetheless, he was writing, and he was doing what he wanted to do, creating his art of a written word. He was John Steinbeck. Mark wanted to be like him. For the first time, the idea came to him to become a writer, and it was larger than life.

Mark McGuire has published three successful books and multiple short stories across various publications and journals. His first book, “Immigrant Song,” has put him right up there with all the promising writers. He met his agent around the same time and got a deal for his second book. The second book, “The Houses of the Holy,” has won the Pulitzer prize and put Mark McGuire on the national level. As the sales in the United States went through the roof, the book received international printing and has been translated into more than thirty languages earning him international success as well. “Gods and Monsters,” the third book by mister Mark McGuire received a Nobel prize in literature in 2014. Mark was a proud son of his parents, a happy family man, at that point, and the most respected resident of Philadelphia and the State of Pennsylvania, and the entire country and the entire world. Hollywood bought the rights to all of his books and produced three top-grossing movies. The White House at one time invited Mark to have dinner with a President and his family. Mark has befriended multiple celebrities around the globe who wanted to meet the most incredible author of the present day. His life couldn’t be more exciting and successful. He was the greatest living writer in the world!

Mark owned multiple properties in Pennsylvania, New York, Los Angeles, and the beach house in Jersey but spent most of his time in Philly. Philadelphia, his hometown, had everything his little heart desired. Mark loved the architecture of Philadelphia, the parks, busy during the day streets, and peaceful calming nights of the City of Brotherly Love. The City inspired him and made him want to be an artist and to create his craft. He loved to walk around the City a lot before he became famous, and it was still possible to walk outside and not be bothered by the people. He loved to take long walks down Broad street and onto the Spruce and down to Columbus Boulevard, then take Walnut back to the Market and his bellowed Old City. Mark’s favorite residence was right there in the heart of the Old City, 3rd and Market. He owned the top floor with a nice view of the City, which always inspired him and made him feel at home. This residence was his creative shelter. This place gave birth to his latest third book, five years ago, and since he hasn’t published or wrote anything new.

He was a writer that didn’t write. He had it all and at some point, but everything has left him alone, high and dry. His situation was dire. He thought a lot about his life and death and all the reasons and meaning of everything, but nothing helped. He still wasn’t writing anything new. He drank more too. Mark would wake up early in the morning and look through the window over the dark and still sleepy City. He found this view very comforting and inspiring in the way. Mark loved to get up early in the morning and watch the sun rising and observe how the color of the sky changed, often with a glass of whiskey in his hand. He had his typewriter ready to go, but still, nothing came to him. Mark would stare at the blank sheet of paper for a long time. His face would freeze in the sad and thoughtful grimace, thinking about what he should be writing next.

“I am Mark McGuire, the greatest writer in the world! Isn’t it? I used to write well. I used to write days and nights, tired and starved, with a shitty laptop and a word processor, and there were so many great stories and ideas to write about! Where are they now? Why did they all leave me here all alone and desperate? I need to get back to business; I need to write something. It’s been five damned years since my last book. I need to show people some new work, and it got to be good. It better be good! Not good, but great! Yes, it better be great, another great book by Philly’s famous one and only, Mark McGuire! And I feel like I also need some coffee.” He went to the kitchen to brew some fresh, strong black coffee. Pure black was his favorite. Sipping at his coffee from the large white ceramic mug, Mark was staring at another sunrise, looking into the infinite skies thinking. “Maybe I should go for a run while the City is waking up and there aren’t too many people outside? I think I need to get back in shape, both physically and in writing. I need to be strong and active.”

He dressed in his running clothes and running Nike sneakers and went outside. It was September out, and the air was still warm but somehow very clean and fresh this early morning. Mark stretched his legs and started jogging down the street. He ran for about 40 minutes one way and then returned home. Running in the morning in the City was great. As he ran, he listened to a classical station on his phone. The classical music in the morning did the trick. He felt so elevated and fulfilled while listening to it. The running seemed to come easy, and he felt like he could run even more than his usual distance. There were not too many people and cars out yet, and he found a bit of personal comfort and privacy in that. Mark loved his fame and his fans, but more than anything else, he loved his privacy. He could be the nicest guy out there socializing with other people; however, people tired him fast. He felt exhausted and frustrated and had to meditate to find his peace of mind and get back into a stable mental condition. After about an hour and a half of his morning jogging, Mark returned home. He returned yet again to an empty page.

“I need some breakfast,” he thought and went to the fridge for some eggs and veggies. That was his “breakfast of the champion” – two fried eggs and fresh vegetables with a cup of coffee. He ate and drank his coffee. He felt a little better. After Mark finished his breakfast, he looked at an abandoned typewriter and still felt nothing but sadness. It was time for his morning meditation. Mark loved to sit in his favorite rocking chair and drink or listen to music or meditate. Mark meditated for at least thirty minutes every day. Meditation was his remedy for going insane. Writing could’ve been the most liberating and fulfilling thing, or it could turn out to be the most depressing, uneventful, and devastating experience for a writer. Mark has had it all. He’s been around for long enough; he knew things, he knew what it meant to be a writer, especially a good writer.

“I need to write something now. I know I can. Maybe not today, maybe tomorrow? Who knows, I just hope it will come back to me. I wish this meditation helped more, or whiskey, or even running. Fuck, anything would be helpful to get me started at the typer. Once I am there, I am truly there. I can kill, I can destroy, I can write like no one around! Maybe, I just need to relax a little bit more and watch some TV or something?”

TV bored him fast; there was nothing on it that would fascinate him. “I’d rather read a book.” Mark grabbed “Ask the Dust” by John Fante and started reading. Oh, John Fante! The lost and long-forgotten one of the Great American writers! What a man! What a writer! Reading Fante was like breathing the fresh air. His writing always seemed so easy and smooth and funny and nicely composed. Mark admired John Fante a lot. He was another significant influence on Mark’s writing. Reading anything Fante did would make any idiot start writing himself. He read for about two hours and stopped, then went to his home bar and grabbed himself a glass of whiskey. Whiskey felt good. He sat back in his chair and read some more. After a while, he thought he could go back to his writing again. He was standing before his typewriter, looking at this machine with slight curiosity. “Ok, my dear friend. I want you back. I want to be friends with you again. Help me put a few pages, and I will never forget your generosity, and I shall always cherish our friendship.” He came closer and started to type:

“It has been a cold and dark morning, and the City was still asleep. John woke up after he heard the harsh noise which came from the street. He wondered what the hell that was. He woke up and took a shower. The shower felt sobering and refreshing, and John felt better and calm. Even yesterday’s hangover was gone within minutes. His wife called him a day before, and he refused to talk to her. They were divorced for the last two years but still had to talk to each other from time to time, especially to discuss the alimony payments and when the child can stay over. John had enough of that. He wanted to move on. He wanted to leave town, but he couldn’t. He missed his son and loved him dearly. Why was he ever involved with this woman in the first place? Why was he so stupid?”

Mark stopped for a moment, re-filled his whiskey, and tried to continue but didn’t know how to. He stared some more at the half-full page. He needed some more time to focus. He stepped back, turned to the window with the city view, and watched people move on the streets and cars drive back and forth. The City was alive and busy again. There is so much life in there. Mark felt nostalgic for a moment. He reminisced about the days when he was a poor student, with no car, no money, no books published. How simple was life back then? How great and terrifying it felt not to know what the next day will bring and not to be sure if the very few dollars in your pocket will last long enough. He was young and starved, and there was something about that state of mind. When your back is against the wall, and you have nowhere to run and nowhere to hide, you act fast, you think quickly, have no time to discuss anything, no time for bullshit, only actions, clear, precise, concrete steps. Those actions made him write in the first place. He wrote his first book in about three months. He remembered the feeling of finishing his last page and then just stare at the pile of paper. “This is my book! My very first book!” He said, smiling proudly. That moment was worth reliving a hundred times.

Moments like that usually don’t happen too often. Unfortunately, things were not so easy as they seemed. He was not starving; he wasn’t hungry; he wasn’t in the state of his back-against-the-wall. Once the most celebrated people in Philadelphia, he was wealthy, well-respected, and an established writer. He did not wish for anything anymore and for many-many more years to come. His wife divorced him two years ago, and now he had a lot more time to spend on his writing. And he did, but he didn’t write. It just didn’t come to him. Whatever came out of him went straight into a trash bin. The writing was never easy. The writing was never easy for anybody, not even for Fante.
The phone rang.

“Hello, this is David Fitzwater, from The Philadelphia Inquirer. I would like to speak to Mark McGuire if possible?”
“Mark McGuire’s listening.”
“Hello, Mr. McGuire, I am the main editor of Philadelphia Inquirer, and we would like to do an interview with you and let our people, Philadelphia residents to know what you have been working on and how your life is going these days. Would you be willing to sit down with me for an interview?”
“Um, sure, let’s do this.”
“How about tomorrow, if possible? Afternoon works?”
“Yeh, tomorrow afternoon works; around 1 pm is good for me.”
“Sounds good, Mark. Thank you very much. I am looking forward to talking to you tomorrow. You have a great day yourself.”
“Thank you, David, you as well. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

He hung up. One more interview to talk about nothing. Because nothing mostly was happening in his life. People asked him to do an interview almost every day, either for journals, newspapers or TV shows. He had his “great life story” ready to go. However, not everything was so great and smooth in his life anymore. After the third book, when the big success hit him, everything changed. One might think that he had finally achieved what all writers in the world would like to achieve, the Nobel prize in literature, worldwide success, and endless fame, limitless possibilities, and opportunities in movies, books, and TV. Everything changed entirely for Mark to the worst.

Poem: The rhythm of life

Constantly running after
Something,
Constantly trying to prove
Something,
Constantly trying to escape from
Something,
Never a minute of stillness,
Never a chance for a break
One hustle after another
The man has to live his life
This way
Until there is still some life to live
Until there is still something to hustle
About
Until there is sunshine in the sky,
Until there is oxygen in the air.
Hoping one day, it will be better
Hoping one day, he can truly
Live his life.

Depression

I found myself in these same traps again, in this darkness, where the sun doesn’t shine, and I am lost as lost can be and there is no escape, and there is nothing else to do but suffer. Was this depression talking? It could be. It has been a good part of my life. It is present like never and relevant, and it fucks with me constantly. All these hours of meditation and calming this shit down work only temporarily. It’s like a sunrise in the morning obscured by shitty dark grey clouds that wouldn’t show the beauty of it all. You’ll look to see the wonder of nature, and all you see is sadness all around. You know you want to escape, you know this is not right, you know this is not you, but you can’t. You’ve been part of it, a significant portion of it.

Charles Bukowski wrote, “We don’t even ask happiness, just a little less pain.” Everything will pass someday, somehow, someway. I hope it will. I never liked to be part of this, and this is not the way I am. It just fucking drags you into this mud and smears the fuck out of it on your face and soul. You try to wipe it off, wipe it out, but with time it doesn’t matter. It won’t help you. And you are infected with it. It’s on your breath and face and skin and soul and in your ears and your blood. It is fucking everywhere. You feel it in your chest and spine and arms and legs and brain. How should I deal with it? How to be free and happy again? How to stay away from it? I don’t know. 

I am never a sad person in life as I am trying to be as optimistic as possible, but I cannot sometimes maintain that frame of mind for too long. Something else takes over. Even though there are plenty of reasons to be happy and enjoy life when this fucking darkness comes over, I am down on my knees, struggling to get up and look forward. I guess I did allow this to happened to me somehow. Unintentionally. I was trying to make the broken and useless shit work, and it just wouldn’t, and as time went by, it hit me back hard. It won’t comply. There are many sacrifices to be made, and I think I’ve made too many. Too many to count for, but just enough to make me feel all that now and suffer. 

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Poem: War

People are very good
At destroying
Everything that was built
Before them
For them
By them.
There is no remorse
There is just a passion
Of destruction
That rules their minds
That rules the world.
Lives don’t matter
People don’t matter
Nothing matters
As much as destruction
Of it all
Slowly
Passionately
Deliberately
Preaching the choir
Shaking hands with the devil
Following orders
Like sheep
Following idiots
Who said something
To help ruin
Everything
In the name of war
Promoting the peace
Promoting a better life.
For who?

My old man

I haven’t seen my old man in so many years. Looking back, it comes to me that we didn’t see each other more than we did. He was gone for work when I was thirteen, and since that time, we only occasionally talked on the phone. He would visit us about once a year, but he felt like a guest at our house. He was a stranger now since being out for so long does change a person. Back then, I was just a teenager, and not many things mattered to me. I didn’t care. I didn’t have anything to say; whatever parents decided to do was the law, and I could not question or not follow it. We separated for good for seventeen years with no visits, no photos, and just some rare phone calls. It became a new norm, a new life for all of us. Questions about where your father was, were not asked by others because everybody got used to my father being somewhere far away and he’ll never be here with us, so it doesn’t matter anymore.

My old man wasn’t always this old. I remember him as a younger man, full of energy, power, and life lessons. He wasn’t well-educated, but he was street smart. There was so much wisdom in his words that I would learn as time went by. He was right on so many levels, but the lessons he taught me were a bit pre-mature for my foolish, childish brain, and they didn’t register right away. He kept on preaching and teaching me things, and I continued to ignore them. Time has caught up with me, though. As a young man, my old man was always angry, and he never liked other people. Other people were always dangerous, mean, harmful, bad-spirited, and for some reason, they always wanted to take advantage of us. The only safe place in the world was our old house which was our home, which was the only place we could feel safe and relaxed.

I remember when I was fifteen, and he taught me how to drive a car. His lesson didn’t last too long. After the first day, I left the car crying, drowning in tears, because the old man had no patience with me, and I didn’t know when to focus on the road or his screams. The next day my mother signed me up for driving school, and some other man was teaching me the driving skills. 

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Poem: One great precious moment

Hope is what we need
In all the hopeless places.
Love is what we miss
When we need to be loved.
We reminisce about summer
During long and cold winter days
And in the summer we want to
Cool it off.
There is a balance in life
That works, and it might not
Be working for all,
But it makes life interesting.

We’ve been apart too far
From one another, maybe too long?
Cannot even remember our last conversation
Or the last phone call we had.
Life’s moving fast,
We are growing old faster.
One minute you were a child
The next you’re an old man.
One minute you think that there is
Still so much to live
And so much to life
And the next minute,
You’re at the end of it wondering
Where did the time go?

There is nothing to take back.
There are so many
Precious moments in life and
There are only so many sunsets and
Sunrises. We sure miss a few
But we cannot afford to ignore
The wonders of nature and
How beautiful it is, trying
To make us feel better,
To give us hope,
And love, and life,
and so many precious moments.

Lost in New York City: Part II

I woke up in the morning to the sound of my alarm. I could see the world outside was waking up and getting brighter with every minute. The first thing I felt was the wine smell on my morning breath and in my mouth, and it felt disgusting. The second thing I felt was the major headache. I always hated the mornings after drinking and the headaches, and the breath smells, and the puffed-up face, and paranoia and everything else that came with it. I rolled in bed for a couple of minutes and then decided I need to get my shit together and get ready for work. I went to the bathroom, pissed. I was disgusted with my breath, so I decided to brush my teeth to get the wine smell out of my mouth. As I brushed my teeth, I looked in the mirror at my face, which was all swollen and puffy. I wondered if it will go away in the next two hours to look fresh for work.

I took a shower and started to dress up. I got my white shirt and my dress pants from my bag and put them on the bed. I found an ironing board in the small pantry along with an iron. I started to iron my shirt and pants, making sure that all looked nice and well pressed. I was hoping I could hide my hangover and headache with the sharp outfit. I needed to be at work by 9 am. It was almost seven now. I felt hungry and thought about where I should get my breakfast. I saw the restaurant downstairs, maybe I’ll go down there. I’ve searched for an Uber car to see the approximate time to the office. It was about 30 minutes in the morning traffic. I thought I had just enough time to get my breakfast. The headache became worse, and I took out a Motrin pill and swallowed it with some spring water. I’ve got my laptop bag with my stuff in there and was ready to leave. Spraying myself with some fancy perfumes, I looked at myself in the mirror and left the room. I took an elevator downstairs and walked towards the restaurant.

The restaurant was pretty busy this early morning. As I came closer to the front desk, the waiter greeted me and asked me to hold on a minute. Then a minute after, another waiter showed up and guided me to my table.

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Lost in New York City: Part I

I arrived in New York City on early Monday morning. I’ve recently got a new job. It was the best thing that happened to me in a long time, getting a new job. After eight months of nothingness, misery, and unemployment, I was a decent human being again. I was back to normal. I could even write again. There was no need to hustle and no need to live on my last dollar anymore. I began to work for a major and well-known financial institution. I was a contract employee, and even though contractors are never even remotely close to employees in terms of general compensation and benefits and all that good shit that we all are thriving for, I was happy at last. I felt like I’ve made it. I, who came from nothing, who came to this country with nothing more than two bags of bullshit and high hopes for a brighter future, have finally made it. I was able to graduate from one of the top business schools in Philly. I worked for various companies, from real estate to medical devices to fucking financing. And here I was, the major player has offered me a new gig. This Company’s name I could proudly put on my resume as one that will open so many opportunities and doors for me in this country where both idiots and dreamers have an equal chance. 

I have booked a hotel right by Times Square, on 47th Avenue, in the “tourist’s heart” of New York, the Big Apple, the City of all the Cities, the power, the money, the big shot, the big shit. I never knew before that my Company had three different buildings in the Manhattan area. Two were across the street from each other in midtown, which reminded me of the Twin Towers. The third one was 15 miles away, downtown. Of course, I booked my hotel closer to the two across the street from one another since I thought that was where I was going to. I was wrong. The lady at the front desk has told me that the building I was looking for is on the other side of Manhattan, downtown. Fuck. I took another cap for another $20 to go to the other side of Town. I paid and walked out with my laptop bag and the mid-size travel luggage bag, and the fucking umbrella which I had to purchase first coming out of the train station. It has been raining in New York since the early morning, and the forecast wasn’t any better for the next few days.

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Poem: Snow

It snows today.
It snows today again.
It seems that there is no end
To this white matter, which
Just keeps falling from the sky,
Like nobody’s business.
But it is everyone’s business.
Everyone’s trapped now
In their houses with all their problems and no escape,
Nothing to do and nowhere to go.
We sit at home all depressed and angry,
And thanks to God for the booze and movies.

When it snows, it’s nice and beautiful,
It looks so pure and clean and white,
So picturesque, so fresh and new.
But later, this white pureness will
Melt, and will show its darkness
It’ll turn into a black and nasty,
Fucking mushy icy matter
Which will make your car dirty,
Your shoes wet and your soul cold.
The third time it snows this week
And I am already sick of it.
Fuck it, go away, you fucking snow,
Let me be free, let me enjoy the nice,
Warm and humid, sunny summer days.
They are so missed.

When the Man comes around

And there he was, standing in front of the Man, facing his life, facing his fate. It wasn’t like they usually said it is: the light, the smoke, the tunnel, the virgins, the nice shiny day in the beautiful park with some relaxing music by the greatest composers playing in the background. Everything seemed too casual for the afterlife or whatever that place is called in between where you yet to be decided by God to put your sorry ass into for eternity. It did seem a very bizarre experience when Bob was standing there facing the Man.

“What’s your name?” the Man asked.
“Bob. My name is Bob Cooper, Sir.”

Bob answered with a questioning look on his face. Bob was 53 years old, alcoholic, and a selfish asshole. He had a family, a wife and two kids, daughters. Bob liked to watch sports on TV, drinking beer, vodka, whiskey, and pretty much anything that would give him a buzz. He worked for the union, a construction company, all his life, and he drank and smoked for about as long as he could remember himself. Bob grew up in a typical middle-class family in rural Pennsylvania, to the parents of a school teacher and an engineer. Bob left his home at 19 and started to live his own life because he wanted to make his own money and be his own boss in life. Bob was an asshole all his life. Even he was surprised how in the world he managed to get married and have children and remain in a marriage as long as he had. Bob never paid too much respect or spent too much time with his family. He was providing, and he was drinking all the fucking time. Nothing else mattered besides the booze, his friends, sports, and his union job.

Bob’s drinking affected his looks and health, but he didn’t care too much about it. He looked much older when he actually was. He had a heavily featured swollen face; his skin was wrinkled and old. He chain-smoked and drank something all the time. Even on his job, he was trying to slip some whiskey into his coffee. Drinking was affecting his mood and his behavior severely. He was rude and disrespectful to other people, and he was rude and disrespectful to his wife and kids.

Bob had two kids, two gorgeous girls who were always ashamed of their father. If Bob was sober more often, he would be ashamed of himself also. When drunk, Bob was becoming a religious fanatic and was praying aloud all the time. He would go around and preach to everyone. He would be talking about God and how he was a special person to be here on Earth, suffering for everybody’s sins. When he sobered up, he was not talking about God so much; however, he felt like he had to become a priest instead of becoming a nobody somewhere deep in his mind.

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Poem: A glass full of wine

Like a glass full of wine
Overflowed,
And the wine keeps pouring.
And the glass drowns in it.
And the wine never ends.
And the emotions are so raw.
And fresh and clean and
Fucking beautiful
And Brahms is playing the
Violin Concerto in D Major
And nothing else matters,
Any more, any less,
Live goes on as it should
And we should move on,
Somewhere else,
Remember that Brahms concerto
And the good wine
And all the good times
And the warm sun
On the nice bright day
When we were young and
We didn’t give a fuck
And we were so innocent and true,
Just like that violin Concerto in D Major.

The saddest day

I am still wondering six years later, how in the world this could ever happen? Why? I refused to believe it for so long. I could never imagine that the person with so much life and energy could be gone so quickly and so suddenly. It crushed me. I remember that morning as I woke up and I checked my phone, and multiple messages were saying, “have you heard?” I haven’t yet. I am 7 hours behind that part of the world; I was peacefully asleep as the planet changed its course. It was impossible. The impossible happened. Damn. Was it just the dream? Is it just a car accident? Maybe he’s still alive? Maybe he will recover? Why in the fuck did this ever happen? The saddest day in my life was emerging on the early morning of February second of 2015. It has been a grey, cold, nasty, and brutal morning. I still remember that day as it happened yesterday when my hero died.

There are people that once you’ve met them, your life changed its course immediately. There are people larger than life. He was a person like that. He meant life to so many, and he was more alive than anybody I knew. He showed how to live and how to live properly for so many. He helped people to live their lives and be happy and be thankful for the little things. He radiated life energy, positivity, optimism, a bundle of great emotions, and a willingness to live, to live forever. His music was with me throughout my entire life. I was growing up listening to his music and watching him on TV as a kid. Later, as I grew up, I had a chance to meet him personally, and I was just fascinated. His energy consumed me and made me feel different, gave me the boost that I needed to feel life, to feel alive, and have something to be proud of in every breath. I felt that life was great again and worth living, and there were so many beautiful things in life that somehow I haven’t noticed before. Nobody ever has me felt this before or after.

That morning I was about to start a new chapter of my life. My lifestyle was about to change due to restructuring at work. I had a chance to come to work earlier and leave earlier as well. So my new schedule was 8 am, instead of 9:30 am. That meant that I would wake up at 6 am. I woke before that alarm went off on February second. Checking my phone for the time, I’ve noticed all these messages I received overnight. There were some messages from people I haven’t heard in a while; they all said the same thing. My initial reaction was, ok, there was a car accident, he’s probably traumatized, but I couldn’t comprehend that he’s no longer alive. I refused to acknowledge that. I watched the videos sent to me and read the news articles. They didn’t say he’s dead just yet, but about the car accident. Looking at the white Toyota Sequoia wreck after the accident, it looked like it was impossible to survive. It was impossible to imagine it could ever happen. It was just too much to comprehend.

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