Eleven Minutes

  • I live like a hanged dog – got used to everything. I’m not sure if it’s right.
  • So, what’s plan B?
  • I haven’t got plan B, I live in it.

Sunday was lost: I played Moby all day long, smoked and ate Russian salad. After seventh or maybe eighth cigarette I felt in need for a cup of black coffee.

There was no coffee left, it was raining, I made my-self a cup of Earl Grey.

I read an article on smoking. Did you know that one cigarette shortens life by eleven minutes?

I heard it once before from a passer-by when I was having a sandwich outside a coffee shop. He slowed down to chat up two young women who were having cigarettes over their coffees.

  • I read that one cigarette shortens life by eleven minutes, – he explained.
  • You never know what’s going to kill you… – replied one of them.
  • Sex prolongs it by nine… – he mentioned smiling, – I can help you to restore the balance.

Women laughed, so did I and lit up a cigarette. Without any thoughts, ay thoughts about future.

I rarely think about future, it’s like trying to see the way through the fog: keep straight and hope for the best.

I had another cigarette, this time thinking about things I could do in eleven minutes. Write a letter, tell people I love, that they are the best, smoke three more cigarettes, watch Trip to the Moon, stich a sock, take a nap, have a piece of milk chocolate with hazelnut, take a shower… change the world. Change my-self?

If I listen carefully, I hear mice fucking under the washing machine. Or maybe that’s only buttons touching the glass of washing machine door?

Reality is divided into levels. I haven’t thought all of them through yet.

Ground level – reality where rest defeated by monotony, there are lack of emotions (if any) and life is fitted into twelve hour bracket. First level – the other twelve hours that are dedicated for preparing for bed, sleeping or waking up. The third level – reality diluted with booze, where each minute seems different and colourful, depending on quantity and liquor consumed. The fourth level, where I often find myself is reality where one lives in past, future but never in the present moment, it’s getting lost in the labyrinths of fairy tales, a mixture of ground and first levels, life based on movies, embodying one character or another, but never being your-self, this is a tiny red line separating sanity from insanity. Insanity the fifth level of reality.

I begin to wait for tomorrow, because I totally screwed today up. And this is becoming my routine: I wait for better days as if they will change a thing. On the other hand, this anticipation arises pleasant uneasiness and agitation.

A blind date with tomorrow.

And each time tomorrow disappoints me.

How can you be your-self if you haven’t got the least idea who that is?

I got twenty dollars bill in my pocket, a pack of tired Parliament cigarettes, matches and a mobile phone. Plenty of desires in my head…

Melancholy.

I almost fell down the stairs. I’m in the third less stable level of being. We drank tequila with slice of lemon and salt. After the fifth shot I remembered His life philosophy: keep calm and carry on/…

And mine: /… until tomorrow, with eyes shut, like a hanged do.

This could be a reason why we ever happened?

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