Vreau să scriu o scurtă nuvelă…. nu știu dacă o voi termina…. abia am scris puțin, noaptea, pe 3 aprilie, și voi da aici copy paste la ce am scris. Fie ce o fi! Uite cum începe… nu știu cum se termină… sigur se termină rău.
A lost man
He would barely eat and would barely talk, if you wouldn’t see him moving around, you’d say he already smells of decay. His face was pale, his bones were pronounced and all the misery could be seen in his expression.
In the morning, he would go to the terrace near his home, drink his coffee, smoke his pipe and excessively burn cigarette after cigarette, until the customers started to arrive. From then, he went back home into his loneliness, lost in his thoughts, in his madness, his suffering and hate. He was a lost man, forgotten by everyone, except by those who would still need something from him, an old debt maybe. For paying the facilities, he used his old computer which he also used to send out articles or small writings here and there, for a bit of cash to be able to live, that is, to indulge in the only vices he had.
Long gone were the days of his glory, even gone from his memories, which he himself considered dreams of another life, or lies he used to live in. But how did he get like this? He was probably one of those of whom Blake used to tell, that some to misery are born. Such is our character here. A sinner, who tried to be a saint yet failed, and failed so many times, until Hell has caught his soul and found his place there. He ceased to fight, his existence in this world still being present only by his stubbornness. A perfect example of a walking dead. A ghost to many who forgotten him, and to those who barely see him.
Locked in his home, the hours would pass by only with the help of long sleep, books and emotional torture from his continuous thoughts of grief. His only luck was a somewhat fortune he inherited, which helped him continue to indulge in the few things left to enjoy, and the little food to keep him just at the brink of survival. He was sick. His body, mind and soul were old, yet his age was a straight contradiction, being in his 30s.
What a deplorable story this is! one might think. And it is. For such stories have always existed, only few were told, many have been forgotten and ignored. But man’s fascination with these macabre stories kept them somewhere on a niche, between and real and the fantastic horror. Sometimes, a stupid fascination, unable to understand the profoundness and complexity of emotion behind, leaving some to think only of eccentrics in some decadent literature, or of the excitement of an erotic horror novel repeated too many times.
But no, read reader. These are not