Five Acts

There's an open bottle on the counter with his eyes open, startled yet prophetic. Pleasantries accompanied by the daily tirades start us off before we realize how far we've come. Before these moments of sipping hot elixirs on an oddly warm September day, the feeling of mutual hatred that was real, not just the imitation we do to amuse our boredom. He might be the one person who understands how this air is suffocating to breathe in, to live in, to exist in. He knows how much it hurts to rise day in and day out.

I think back to those adolescent nights of discovering short stories by an ancient Russian and I have to pose so many questions to myself but the main one stands, I know the answer.
It's these days. They keep coming even when I refuse. I shake my head, cross my arms and hold my ground. A refusal partially of spite but also of logic, experience and the day to day that I live in.

I am worn through with fibers close to their final grasp at coherence but instead of real help, let's sit in these stolen chairs and discuss our mutual gripes. It will do for now.

I try to catch every sentence, every word you and I say, and quickly lock all
these sentences and words away in my literary storehouse because they might come
in handy.

The Seagull by Anton Chekhov