Moments of contemplation fleet and fly. Self-actualization rides the wind of trumpets ringing, while a drink slips from hand to table after a nice warming sip. A head nod — agreeing, thinking — confirms continuation.
Eyes closed, wrinkling and smushing the corners, to see inside the self. Searching for the answers not found on chestnut eyes and red pouty lips. Another distraction to forget about the pain etched into lungs.
Maneuvering from eyelids to the brian, the search inward continues.
The world moves around each breath. The music playing in the background of a dive bar with stained tables with…
Lately, I’ve lived a — mostly — sober life. Except for an increase in coffee consumption, my vices are dropping like flies as I age.
The thing is, no matter the time and place I listen to jazz, I want to break all elements of a healthier lifestyle. It’s probably a Pavlovian response, but the swing of jazz, the plosives of funky trumpets, the light, fast right of hi-hats, and the staccato jumping of fingers hitting black and white keys — all of it makes me crave a glass of wine, a smokey scotch, or a smooth gin.
If you had the chance to increase your income 187%, would you? Most people are likely to say yes. But, you’re thinking: What’s the catch? There’s gotta be a catch.
You aren’t wrong.
The catch is leaving your regular, comfortable, secure 9–5 job and branching out into short-term contract work. You wouldn’t be alone — the latest numbers suggest that ~8.2% of working Canadians make up the gig economy. In Toronto, it’s as high as 10%, and in the U.S., it could be as high as ~33% contributing to a growing freelance and gig economy.
The match flickers in the light breeze waiting for its job to commence. Aware of its short existence, a rush of nervous anticipation swells with each gust. The wild flame always puts the match’s destiny at risk, toying with its hope. But it wasn’t as agonizing as Charlie.
Charlie, a 12-year old kid with brown, knotty hair, blue eyes, and dirt speckled across his face, hesitates. Below, a gasoline trail nestled between his legs. The match’s flame inches toward Charlie’s calloused, tiny fingertips.
Charlie never once looked at the match after sparking the flame into reality. The smell of phosphorus…
To the Man in the Mirror,
I see those beady blue eyes full of cowardice. There’s no discernible reason for you to fall into a stupor of doubt and worry.
You have a job in troubling times (for now), and you overthink trivialities. The incessant analysis festers, ruining all the built-up positivity — like termites hollowing out the innards of a tree so the faintest wind can topple it with ease.
You’ve become unrecognizable. I almost thought you a stranger — and wish you were — wrought with insecurities. Why are you afraid? What is it? Do you expect to…
To the Girl Who Can’t Escape My Mind,
Why are you here? Have I locked you in? Or are you refusing to leave? Or is my head so cluttered you can’t find your way through my self wallowing mind?
I get flashes of memory, picture-perfect scenes replayed at the most inopportune times, that fill me with a sudden anxiousness that is difficult to quell. The memories are always of some innocuous moment, but I’d give anything to have a new one to experience. Instead, the same shadows of you tumble sporadically through my head.
There is something tethering you to…
To the Man Who Needed a Friend,
Traveling on the subway can be an interesting experience, as you know. Mundane trips only seem to outnumber the deftly odd and interesting by two to one. So, that still leaves a lot of weird fucked up shit you get to see on your commutes.
The bigger question is: Is that the case for you?
Every trip for you must seem like one mind-bending trip through new worlds, new galaxies. Each new car presents a new lifeform — a new species that doesn’t understand you, seeing you as a foreign monster.
Sunday morning cigarettes are the best. It’s because it is the only day I allow myself to partake in, what society calls, a nasty habit. I look forward to it every weekend. It’s a remedy for the countless Sunday hangovers I’ve quelled in my numerous years of drinking. This Sunday was no different.
It was 7:00 AM, and my headache became too intense to sleep any longer, so I decided it must be time for my morning smoke. I tried to replay events from the previous night, but everything was still a jumbled mess of whirs and blurs. I crawled…
I like to pretend that I’m a writer. I’m a fan of stories — doesn’t matter the form. And, unfortunately, I didn’t assemble the Avengers. Instagram - @nickjfuri