I can’t act anymore

“I can’t act anymore.” I told the director.
He marched out holding his head.

After 10 minutes of cigarettes and swearing he reappears and tries to make amends as though his goodwill alone could restore my desire to create souls for the characters to whose life he had bought all rights.

I follow my footsteps for six miles until I reach the building that I sleep and eat in. A pile of books greets me in the hallway, though without familiarity. I find the desire to eat the vessel of a previous soul as appealing as that of creating another, and so I head straight for the bed.

The darkness feels soft on my body’s skin. After one hour and twenty three minutes, one of the plastic glow-in-the-dark stars that I stuck to the ceiling as a child gives up and falls onto my chest. This is the worst kind of shooting star.

And what about the desperate midnight humans
Who are screaming and displacing anger all over the street tonight?
Bottle throwing existencilists are beautiful like the girl in the bus stop that I pass everyday as I return from my supermarket prayers.

Once I tried to become self reliant and live from the earth according to season.
That same washing machine still sits in my garden refusing to grow fruit, sow its seeds or even die.

Currently 7.00/10
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10

Rating: 7.0 out of 5 votes cast