There is A Song

She looks at the jukebox and wonders which song would best reflect the spark she lit and lived along its flickering lights all by her own. If you asked her if she was fluent in the languages she spoke, she would say: “I am fluent enough to keep things ambiguous until the time passes. I know how to spell out the words but I lack the ability to express them in an immediate fashion.”

If you ask her if she ever loved, she would say: “Yes, but I loved in silence. Perhaps it’s better this way, or perhaps I need someone to slap this bullshit out of me.”

She looks at the jukebox and wonders if there is a song that she can sing along with. The songs are familiar yet the words are as distant as her need for a life where the absolute is the will to power and the imaginary is a constant need for disappearance. She could tell you that she’s the one you’ve been looking for in all of the wrong ways,  that life is as difficult as she lets it be, but she would be lying. God, would she be lying.

She finds a song she doesn’t know and for the first time ever, she sings along, knowing all of the words she’s never heard before. Her breath smells of stale cigarettes and beer. Yet, she steps in front of the five people present at the bar at 2p.m. and sings to their faces the stories she’s never been through. She’s high on life or perhaps it is death, who knows? The lights are not strong enough for her to be sure about what it is that she is standing in front of –  a proposition or supposition of something that never was. She ruined the flow of words when she started thinking about what she was supposed to be naturally belting out. There are words she chokes on, words about love and loss that she still hasn’t made peace with. The people ask her to sit down and have a few glasses of water. The water tastes like whiskey and the next thing she knows, it is in fact whiskey.

A guy approaches her: “What’s your story?”

“I just wanted to speak out before my light completely caved in. But it’s getting dark now. Where do we go to escape it?”

“Escape what?”


“Let’s go back to my place.”

Dear Mr. X

Dear Mr. X,

Kindly find attached My CV, cover letter, and application for the 6th time. Let me know if the shadows appearing in the light are swaying where you are. Tell me if they steal another chunk of my impossibly mediocre attempt to work for free under your supervision. I know, I know, you can’t help but be bureaucratic about it; after all you still work under the bigger system where I am a shadow far more intricate and detailed than the ones who have further dimmed their silhouettes to slip through eagerly into that which is unknown.


I know you won’t be reading this email, answering text messages or even walking your own dog because someone else does that for you. I will receive an automated email informing me about what a succesful email it was and how warmly it was received. Knowing that, here’s what I would like you to know about me:

It doesn’t matter if I am employed at a job I love or hate. I will always be the best I could be under the given responsibilities. I would not mind skipping lunch break to get more work done, not because I care about how much work I get done but because as soon as I leave my work and start thinking about my thoughts, I will spiral back into the shadows. Those shadows are not nice entities, and if I lose track of time while hanging out with them, I fear I will no longer be able to satisfy your unpredictable requests. As diabolical as your initial work force ideal is, I will settle down at my desk and uplift your demons back to what they do best. I will greet them and introduce them to more people, get them the best deals in real estate and favor them over people like me.

So you don’t have to worry. The deals will get signed without any adjustments done to the terms. The sheep will remain sheep and the wolves will look at them, selecting the latest weakling to devour at lunch time as I finish the necessary forms for this to be done.

So Dear Mr.X,

All I can thank you for is what you helped me accomplish: Not to become someone I don’t want to be.

Best regards,