I really feel I should write about something. I really do. Just to get a sense of purpose as I drag my carcass along the summer days. So far, my bucket list is far from over, but my batteries are almost fully charged.
Heat. That’s what cities mean to me. The heat in this town is very dusty. It is as if the earth sweats dust as the cars recklessly roll by in the Sun. The inevitable gathering of dark clouds, the disgusting smell of rain as it washes the heat, and dust, and rash, leaving giant holes in the tarmac, just like the post-acne scars. To cope with this everlasting issue, the authorities built roundabouts and created new intersections in order to make the traffic smoother.
What do you do when you’re nothing but a hole in the tarmac? When things become so hot and so intense that you feel the need (perhaps urge) to drown in the acid rain? One knows (or feels) when he gets there, but as soon as one realizes, it’s already too late to stop the roller-coaster.
The way I deal with it? You stop taking things seriously. For in the end, nobody means anything they say. The word, just like the world, is flat. You become somewhat of a sad clown, simply dancing in the acid rain. Making compliments, writing love letters, swearing uncontrollably, showing off, shallow, shallow, shallow reactions that are only possible under the heat of a debilitating Sun.
You only have to laugh it off. Laugh as she’s about to kiss you. Laugh as the dust chokes you and the rain melts your skin. Laugh even louder because you love it.