Talking To Myself

-Let's try and do something good for ourselves tonight. I know that TV, drugs and whiskey are cool and all, but there is more to life than that.
-Yeah, maybe. But what are you going to do about it?
-Well, I have been trying to write something about it. Here, look...
-Ok, but if the first line is about TV, drugs and whiskey then obviously it's the inspiration and without it you would have nothing.
-But that's just it! What if I was living without this shit? Imagine what could be accomplished during a day. Imagine making love and actually feeling it!
-I feel it.
-Well, yeah, but-
-Listen. You can keep imagining all this shit, but without all this, you wouldn't even be real. This is your life right now, and there is no other, or at least no other that you are aware of. Let it go. This is why you have a failed career, failed relationships and own nothing. Because you can't fucking accept who you are in the present. Now--no, not a word, I'm not finished--do yourself a favor. Pour a glass, roll a joint, watch the television. Fuck wildly when she comes over and say things you don't mean.
-Like even that trash about anal sex and a vibrator?
-Absolutely. We can say it over and over again, and we will pretend that we have harmony and that all the things we do in the dark bring you happiness. Then, I assure you, we will have cast enough worry, doubt and illusion into the rill of goodness that you still hold onto to write whatever it is you want to write.
-I hate it when you're right.
-And I hate it when you write.

Feeding the Pattern

"I can't do this. I can't do this," she wailed as she shook the grocery bag. "I can't keep on like this knowing you're leaving. " We stood in the street on our way home from the market. The rain fell heavy and the clouds swelled closer to the dark earth.
"If you believe that, say it again and I'll walk away if that makes this whole thing easier. You'll never hear from me again."
Then the bag broke. The eggs cracked. The wine shattered. The milk found the gutter. Some other shit rattled around, too.
"No, No!" she screamed glancing quickly at the mess, then back at me. "That's not what I want!" Won't you fight for me?"
"No. I can't; I don't have the strength right now. But each day I'm with you, you build me up. And I think I do, or did, the same for you. But you're right. Maybe we can't make believe anymore. Look at it." I motioned to the broken, cracked-up mess we made. Her eyes fixed on the mess, and her head cocked slightly to her right shoulder. She smiled peacefully.
"What?" I asked her.
"Funny," she said almost whispering, still gazing upon the mess, now converging into one stream quietly flowing in the gutter to the drain. "How it comes to this. How such a mistake comes to make sense. It's all feeding the pattern."