Portfóliók

bad synonym day, he thinks. among many other things, for sure. bad hair day is a thing of the past now, bad synonyms are the new fad, it's this idiotic game of reading the news, looking around, finding nothing ever so certain but clinging on a thing that yields a good rhyme pair or a good line (well, above averge will do, he thinks to himself), or something that's not quite so bland as saying the real thing, keepin' it real, as da boyz (as opposed to 'the boys') use to sing or shout (yes, something as merrily far-fetched as the beatles with the sex pistols). no use saying as it is, he ponders on, no use because straight talk tends to terrify people as if it were a huge, mega-multiplayer round after round free-for-all deathmatch where the rule is simple: do not talk about what is. talk about what ifs. talk roses. talk dogshit wrapped up in silk parcels. because the answer to a straight question will always be negative (mon capitan! raise shields! this guy is not afraid to bare his heart! he is dangerous!)

fuck that. i hate this game, he thinks. but he has no choice lest he ends up in the all-time low-scores listing.

so let's wrap this bullcrap up in a silk parcel, he decides, takes a whiff of semi-fresh air, and...

she knows her mind is in the way. he knows her mind is in the way. the fucking brains. it's actually such a damn shame being anchored to a port that is no longer a home, he speaks out loud. but wait. this is too straight, he notices, the fecal matter stains through the silk sheets. gotta use more layers.

rewind. press record once again. let go of the pause button. wrinkles of hard concentration appear on his forehead.

okay, he resumes, and realizes the floods of the recent days serve him an analogy on a silver plate, bland as it is, he takes it, chews on it, spits it out, and speaks thus:

"the flood brought another flood, but of a completely different kind; this time it was a flood of long-cooking, deep-repressed emotions which were unwelcome, unwanted, unexpected -- or maybe not --, unfitting and unhealthy. like the flood-water saturating neighboring pipes, drain-flows, building up pressure, day after day, stronger, harder, pushing on, unstoppable, a force of nature, and finally erupting from the cracks of the pavement, dark, carrying the stench of too-many-days underground, cracking pipes, stopping traffic..."

it's fitting, he thinks. as a progression of emotions, this analogy is mightily fitting. what a mastercrap! amazing, he thinks.

of course, the real meaning of a simple ilovehermumblemumblebutshedoesntmumblemumble is completely lost among the debris of silk, stained with dog-poo. but a good analogy is worth a thousand straight words, he mumbles, swallowing tears, choking on tears, a thousand fucking valentine-day cards rotting or burning on a soft, warm spring afternoon. wonder what she feels like, he thinks. and turns, looks in the mirror and wipes away a tear in the corner of his cockled eyes.

still, a good analogy.