The Existentialist

I have nothing better to say today, so I will leave you with this....
I wrote this over 3 years ago.... it's some of my earliest work.... and yes... it IS about YOU...

You sit on the steps of the old library wrapped in your lush cashmere white scarf and skinny leather jacket, glasses perched on your nose like a bird on a gnarled branch.

You sit taking in the last breath of some "would be famous" Russian author, your Meia De Leita with wings from Vida in your left. You take short, tame sips of the brew with the pinkie on your drinking hand extended ever so slightly.

Why? Because you're sophisticated, that's why...

Your friends arrive and carry you off in waves of intellectual discussion. Where to tonight? The theatre, to see that new one man play all the critics are raving about? The movie house down on Orange to watch some subtitled Iranian affair? Maybe just back to someones flat for a nightcap. Your conversation flourishes when they speak of the effects of Post-Structuralism theory on contemporary literature.

But eventually you're alone.
On your way back to your little apartment with its mock Picasso print above the fireplace and the smell of vanilla in the bedroom.

You are shaking now....
Quivering in the corner....

This hidden life of yours eating at your soul.

If your friends ever found out your dirty little secret.

Better to turn the lights off so you don't have to see yourself.

...Feel the cool, plastic casing as you open up the box and put the badly dubbed, black and white Jet Lee video into the machine.

You're a fake, a fraud, and you know it…