Simon Green
Water screams as it’s reached its boiling point, a young man, dressed like it’ll be his last. Steeps his coffee, and resides outside on a cloudy day. Loss is never an easy thing to deal with, especially if it’s a cat. A funeral lies out on soft dirt, a couple of rocks placed at where a headstone should be. With a muster and some scorching coffee, he begins his speech “We’ve gathered here today, to mourn, yet another cat. I’m not sure what to say about him, I felt like I knew him for 12 years, but in fact, it was only 2. Spam, won’t lie in vain. Stories far and wide will be spread. Like the time he brought a dead bird to the dinner table. Like he was a human… Like he was a part of us… Goodbye spam.” He sprinkled the last of Spam’s delicious treats over an empty grave. He gathered up the semi-circle of gnomes, he placed them back in their respectful homes. He called work with remorse, he’s met yet again with an answering machine “I’m sorry, but a family member has passed. I won’t be able to make it in.”
He leans back with a heavy heart, and hot lava pouring down his throat, into his chest. Perhaps reading will cure his depression, after all, this is what cloudy days are made for; a dull book and skin peeling coffee. 2 pages in he sighed and tossed the book into the trash, it was a self-help book, which never does help. He thought this time the title might have meant something. “How to get happy, and STAY there.” No, what this young man realized he needed was solitude. Solitude, and a whole lot of drugs. “Even better” he whispered. The young man rolled a tight joint and put on Barry White. As he inhales that sweet marijuana, Barry’s smooth voice pushes him past any pain or anxiety that landed on his shoulders. For the first time in a long time, the young man was free.
When someone has been released by the walls of their insecurities, liberty takes on a whole new meaning. Never before has he felt right in his skin, possibly feeling like he was meant for a different time or period. Never before has he trusted his thoughts or opinions, but now. Now with a loose conscious and rich smoky voice bellowing into his ears. He’s it. He’s no longer ‘Simon Green’ He’s a captain, in charge of Saint Albatross. Or he’s just entered from 6 years of being at mars. Or perhaps he’s pissing away his new-found-self all over his garden. But it is better to be urine on a rose petal then to be Simon Green in an empty cubicle.
