Withholder

There was once a girl who was particularly adept at withholding her breath so much so that she fooled everybody into believing that she was dead. They held her wake and funeral and everything. She thought it was funny and marvellous that she should be able to pull off such a feat - until the sombre timbre of the resonance of her self-amusement startled her to realise that she was alone in a coffin buried five and a half feet underground.

So, she decided to crawl her way out of her grave.

After much effort and might, she managed to gasp a breath of fresh cool graveyard air.

After getting over congratulating herself on how capable she was, she thought of what to do next. She imagined that she would go home and scare the living wits out of the people who buried her, and have a good laugh. They might send her for counselling to find out what psychopathic condition might have induced such a funny behaviour before failing to diagnose her with anything specific. Then she'd be sent to school. If she's lucky, the kids at school might find her cool. Otherwise, she'd be ostracised - no big deal - because in a few years, she'd be out to work. Then she'd work - wake up earlier than she did for school - and get home later - she'd wear high heels or sandals and wrinkle-free office clothes. Then, she might start a family with somebody. Then, she might have some children - who might grow up - and start their own families. And by then, she'd realise how old she'd have grown - and then, she'd die of some terminal illness - then, they'd cremate her.

She looked up at the sky and forgot about the blood that was flowing from her nail-less fingers for a moment. Some of the stars shone clearly from behind the scattering of orangey clouds. The moon was new. There was the smell of some random flowers and other things from the offerings to a grave nearby. She thought briefly about looking for something to eat but decided that it would only be too troublesome.

She prayed silently and sincerely for peace to prevail and for all beings to relax and to eventually find salvation from suffering. Then, she anyhow re-buried herself before she suffocated.

Would write

I remember her telling me about how she was feeling depressed and out of hope for life and tomorrow. When I suggested that perhaps writing could help to make her feel better, she said to me, "how can I bring myself to write about anything when all I want to do is to end my life?"

"Don't you have things to do? Things that you want to do and have not yet have the chance to do? Start a family? Go to Europe? Write a play?" I asked.

"Sure, I'll want to do them if I were alive, but if I die, I won't have to do any of them. Don't you get it?"

Even though I pretended not to get it, I did. I saw how her logic worked. I empathised with her and it scared me.

She told everyone that she was going to Europe, but she actually sealed herself into her cupboard, that she sealed inside her room - so that the smell of her rotting flesh wouldn't easily escape. In the cupboard, there were drawers, which was modified by her handiwork to become a planter which contained soil. In the soil, there were seeds of different kinds buried, the most absurd of which was a lotus seed. And she must have sat on top of the soil. She killed herself by blood letting. When they had discovered that she was gone, she was gone, there were traces of blood and other liquids and bits of her bones, but most of it had disintegrated into the earth. There was a little ikea light fixed in the cupboard, perhaps to help the seeds germinate, perhaps to let her write. The ikea lamp was kept on for quite some time because she had made giro arrangements for her utility bill payment and left enough money in the bank for that. Amongst the things she wrote, in a little blue notebook, as she was dying in the cupboard, she wrote this,

"...my greatest regret is not having brought a watch along. Not because I want to know how many days passed, but only to be even more conscious of how time is passing by slowly. Perhaps, the gold casio watch that somebody gave me - if it were digital and without the ticking - that would drive me crazy - it would be perfect. Or perhaps I could live with - no, die with - the ticking.

She had suggested that I could try writing to make myself feel better.

I remember once I was writing under the blue sky. The sky was so fine and brilliantly blue, that my white paper was blue in colour. The gentle breeze, the sound of the trees swaying... the blue sky was so blue... I remember the yellow curtains I had when I was very young. The curtains were very thin, and the blue sky would come through. On Sunday mornings when I woke myself up to watch cartoons, I would spend some lazy time to watch how the blueness of the sky shone through and complemented the pale yellow curtains so well.

Writing does make me feel better. If nothing else I'm leaving behind finds her, please let at least this find her - that she was right, and I was wrong. Writing does make me feel better.

I can't imagine if I didn't have paper and pen to write with now - how else could I make myself sit still here and wait for myself to die?..."

She was wearing shorts and tee-shirt, and bra and panties, and her specs. She was 32.

(sneak.)

The Racoon

There was once a raccoon who rode a Harley Davidson bike. He wore chunky Harley Davidson biker boots and black Harley Davidson biker tee-shirts. He liked the way it matched his tail and dark eye circles.

One day, he got in an accident while riding his bike, his almost last thought was, "What the fuck?" Then, he thought, "Well, after all, it's a befitting way to die for a biker to die on the bike... like for a samurai to die in war. What more could I ask for?"

With that he muttered, "ah fuck it" and closed his eyes and let go of his life and passed away in a simple way shortly after.

The Case against Marble Cakes

"There's one problem with marble cakes.

Okay, two. Two problems.

Firstly, if you have two marble cakes, and you eat some slices of each, then because of the swirls on the cake that don't match, you can't join the remaining slices together and pretend that you have one brand new cake, which would give the impression that the leftovers may not be really leftovers, which is generally a good impression for leftover cakes to give.

Secondly, as in the second problem, marble cakes are just not as popular as chocolate cakes."

By the way: Pink

The Golden Beetle

My mind smashes around like the golden beetle who is confused by the fluorescent lights whose dashing allure promised and baited it to enter into a room, a house, a building, a world that is cold and foreign and that it just can't seem to get out of - but surely there is a way! a way to defend its dreams its ideal its will to live! It must beat its wings as hard as it can as hard as it can and it tries to go a little crazy i fly towards the outside, but i slam against the window it's closed i don't know it's the window perhaps I should gain more speed, perhaps these walls are like the shadows of a dense tree, if I just zoom into it, it will give way it will give way so i ram myself against the wall but i fall i fall I fall on my back and never mind it's okay I will struggle to flip myself back i will not give up i don't know what it is to give up, i have landed on my back before, when I was young, and I can flip myself around then I will try again and I will take a deep breath and I will fly I will fly and beat my wings so hard and so fast and I will burst through the wall and that sense of triumph will surely make this all worth while I will go i will go i will go and tell this story to my wife my kids or the girl that I love or my father and he'd be proud of me and wish that he was the one who was telling me this story instead and it'll be worth while for that moment of glorious glory to see the look on their faces and so I go I go I go I go! but I fall I fall I fall I fall.

What's that i feel? is it pain? i did not fold my wings properly. did I injure myself? did i injure my wing? did I hurt my head? what's this heaviness I feel coming over me? I am tired it is late I am sleepy the corner here is comfortable and quite familiar I will rest for a while and soon I will forget what was life before because I am after all just a beetle - how much do you expect me to be able to remember? Was I born here? Soon I will believe I was born here. Soon, I will forget what I remember. What do I remember? I was born here. I not know despair.