proximity without intimacy (alternateending) wrote in copywrite,
proximity without intimacy

  • Music:

Every Passing Moment.

Mornings are the worst. I wake up, and though the day is different, though my thoughts are the same. This isn't me, this isn't my life. And inevitable, I manage the strength and courage to roll out of bed, a custom-made king size, no spare expense, and trudge ever so slowly towards the bathroom. My hand outstretched for the switch, I prepare for the assault on my eyes, while simultaneously drawing water into the sink. My vision adjusted, I splash the water on my face, and run my fingers over my square, rugged jaw. I grab the razor, a gold heirloom of course, and envision myself slicing my throat. Another day.

Morning toiletries taken care of, I wander, quicker now, towards the closet. $2000 Prada shoes, $4000 Armani suit, 100% silk Armani ties, none of it meaningful. Yet these things somehow defined my existence. Sickened, I dress quickly, and envision myself tightening my corporate garrote so tightly, as I might choke myself. Lacking such conviction to be my own demise, I quickly go through the well-practiced motions of a double-windsor, and prepare to descend into the kitchen.

The smell of coffee overwhelms my sense. Oh, no rapture greater than coffee in the morning. Coffee maker with a timer. My favorite possession. Only $45. Resisting the temptation to plunge my hand into the pot, I pour some of the import Arabica cafe, and sit down in my Italian leather seat. A wall street journal in hand. Stocks down. Record losses. Another day, another worry. Already the sweat began to form on my neck. Cigarette in hand, I reach for my collectible Zippo, and light. Sweet nicotine in my blood, my heart accelerating, warm euphoric feelings. Done with that, the stress again creeps into view.

Keys. Car. Freeway. Gridlock. The pain in the back of my head slowly creeping forward, only the thought of smashing my head into the windshield calms my nerves. Sleeve rolled-up, I put the cigarette out on my arm. The trail of self-mutilation visible, I hurriedly pull my sleeve down, and light another cigarette.

The sea of cars unmoving, I venture to look at my fellow commuters. Always, without fail, they are seen with their electronic tethers, to their ear, invariably speaking of trivial matters. Little Timmy played well at his game. Lady, Little Timmy is bipolar, wears woman's underwear, and dissects neighborhood animals in your basement. He needs help, not organized sports.

And it continues. Seeing all, the world oblivious to my agony. This is individualism. This is manifest destiny. The decay of society is sickening. I pass the excess, the self-absorption, and it takes all my energies to keep from vomiting. Thrust into a situation over which I have no control, dancing in the ashes of the natural world.

God created man. Man destoyed God. Man became God. Man creates life. Man destroys itself. I am man. I am God. I see all, control all, destroy all. The end is drawing nigh, and I am the only witness.

A sign with my name. Always a parking spot in front. I stop, pull in, and shut off my vehicle. Composing myself, I prepared for what lay ahead. I opened the front door of the office building, and entered. The Feng Shui nightmare assaulted my eyes. Underpaid, crammed, my little sardines typing, faxing, filing, making me ever richer. Making way to my office, I reply to the sniveling syncophants with the usual pleasantries. Never has a smile hurt so much.

I opened my office door, and spent several minutes removing the screws from my false countenance. The secretary gives a funny look. I lit another cigarette. No smoking sir, company policy. I am the company. I throw the cigarette down with disgust, and shut my door.

A pile of memorandums. I skim them, and toss them aside. I open the to drawer. A sniff later, and I'm not feeling so down. I notice the rubber-grip handle, the silver barrel.


Meetings. False smiles. Firm handshakes, ass-smacks, and enough bullshit spewed to fertilize a third world country.

My office. Another cigarette. Another stern warning.

Another snort.

Rubber handle more tempting.

6 barrels. 1 bullet.

A spin.

A pull. Snap!

Another time

Deep thoughts over cigarettes and coffee.

Small-talk at water cooler.

Every passing moment we're living life to what is expected.

Rubber-grip. .38


A spin.

Trigger pull. Snap!

I'll try my luck.

Trigger pull. Snap!

I am a God.

Trigger pull.

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