Prelude to a story(upon that day)+ lying
I’m sorry guys but I’m just too fucking tired to write anything decent. So instead you get a smattering of half finished articles/stories, that i shall continue later when I feel in a more inspired mood. Right now though, I feel like crap. So this is what you get.
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Nothing is ever as it seems. It most definitely wasn’t upon that day. That day was like… It was like.. A day that basically, changed my life. It changed my life in a way that no other day ever had and no other day probably ever will. I’m very thankful for that day. That day was just so, so good. It has helped me in so many ways, forced me to take on responsibilities I never would have before, forced me to be a functional member of society, forced me to love, forced me to be there for other people, even when all around me is crap, to be there, for them, it forced me to think logically, rationally; it forced me to keep my cool, to handle my liquor, it forced me to think about my actions, before and after, it forced me to think about how I treat those I loved, it forced me to seek and acheive, it forced me to do so much.
This day, my friends, was the day I grew up….
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And now for a bit of a story…..
Paul walked up the steps, stopping at the door before entering. He was a short man, of slim build, with a bald patch right on the top of his head. It was very noticeable, however his dark, dark brown hair that flowed around his face detracted from it slightly. His eyes were almost black, and his thick heavy eyebrows almost covered them. He stood there for a second and just thought, looking up at the big wooden door and the celtic carvings that went symetrically down either side. The building itself had to be pre-war, definitely before 1940. The brick was authentic red, and covered in a thick layer of grime from the passing traffic. The twilight was approaching, as the street lights were beginning to turn on, and Paul knew he had to make a move soon. He scurried around inside his jacket pocket for the key. He found it, and then stood there for a second longer, waiting, building up the courage to place it inside the keyhole and turn. He did, and the door opened with a slight creak, as he pushed it slowly back. He walked inside the building and the door slammed behind him. Rosalina was waiting. And he knew.
I’d been in Brisbane for four days and I was still worried. I was staying downstairs in a house that was unfamiliar to me, in a city that was unfamiliar to me, in a state that was unfamiliar to me. I longed to be back in London, but I knew it was not practical while Paul was still alive. Yeronga station was beginning to become a familiar site to me now anyway. God knows I’d been on the train into the city that many times. Led and Lena were nice people too. And their house was nice. Big, period style Queenslander, probably the biggest on the block. It had a full length wraparound verandah and a pool in the backyard. It had a large downstairs, where my room was located, a lovely staircase that led upstairs to the dining room with a feature chandelier, a giant bathroom with an incredibly decadent spa, a beautiful kitchen, it was fantastic. And so open, the breeze would just flow through in summer and keep the house very cool. I knew this, as I had only stayed there once before, five years ago, in the summertime. Now I was here under less fortunate circumstances, and I found it much harder to relax. My room itself was kind of small and cramped, and I had a fair walk down the downstairs hallway to a bathroom. I did feel safer though, and I knew that I would be fine here for a few months if need be. Like I said, Led and Lena are nice people, and they are more than happy to help me out. Now all I needed was some kind of income. That’s why I had spent the last four days periodically going into the city; looking for work. Today was day five, it was nine o’clock in the morning, I had just woken, slightly hungover, to the noise of my mobile ringing. I pressed answer and placed the phone to my ear.
Rosalina stood in the room, smoking. The room was nice, large. It was one of only three in the flat, and the biggest. The red colour of the walls had a certain delicacy to them, but also a certain loudness. It was like they were saying “I love you” and “I hate you” at the same time. There was a bed on the opposite side of where Rosalina was standing, and on either side of the bed were antique bedside tables. They were of a dark stain, and on one of them lay a wallet, a key and a belt. On the other was merely a lamp, and an alarm clock. The bed itself was quite disturbed, with the striking white sheets strewn everywhere and a quality in the air that spoke of something. Where Rosalina was standing, in front of her there were two french doors that opened out onto a balcony. The french doors were like everything else in the room, old, and yet stylish. One of them was slightly ajar, and a chill breeze came straight in. Behind Rosalina, on the wall opposite the bed, was another door, that led into a bathroom. In the bathroom was the man she has just fucked. He was lying in the shower, with his throat slit. You could see it quite clearly, he was slumped over on his back, with a giant gash in his throat, his head barely attached. The redness and the skin loosely lying off was immediately apparent, as was the blood that slowly trickled down the drain, at a rate like that of a tap dripping slowly. The man’s whole body would twitch every so often, as if he was not dead, and his eyes would appear to roll around inside his head. Rosalina finished her cigarette, and then threw it out of the ajar french door. She walked into the bathroom, ignoring the man and adjusting herself in the mirror.
To be continued in approximately **** *****.
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Lying. What I shall refer to as an art form; which has been performed for as long as human beings have been capable of language. But is lying really essential in todays society? Well, yes. We lie all the time. Think about it. We lie about where we’ve been, what we’ve been doing, how long we’ve done it for etc etc and so on. And often it’s not even conscious, it’s just a little white lie so you don’t have to explain a situation to a stranger or acquaintance who probably doesn’t really care anyway. Or because you’re telling someone what they want to hear so as to avoid an awkward situation. But what about when it comes to relationships? Is lying acceptable?
Well, sure. In today’s modern society the majority of people aren’t really interested in long term relationships. If that’s you then lying is good. Keep the other person sweet and keep you in their good books. Lie about your past, lie about your future. Lie about whatever you want. If you really love someone, though, you shouldn’t lie to them. Why not? Because lying is in a distinct category, of L-ing words.
Loving.
Lying.
Losing.
If you lie to the one you love things get complicated. Morals, motives, everything is questioned. Slowly things unravel. They may seem alright at first, but trust me, they get worse. Slowly you’re in a spiral where you’re lying about one thing just to cover something else. And I’m not even talking about big stuff here either. Because I know that most of you out there will think, oh, I would never lie about something big to someone I loved. But the little stuff is just as bad. If you really love them and want to be with them for a long time then don’t lie, period.
Yours Sincerely,
Alexander Van Zandt