I took a walk at 6 p.m., down the streets, and the message some moments back pulled away the ground under my feet. I wasn't walking; I was drifting, and you were drifting too, but somewhere I couldn't reach.
I indeed was running with all I had with me, just away from the phone, the house, and the street I grew up. Furthermore, I took the Bus, and the next, and the next, just to get away. Not knowing where to go, I found myself sitting on a bench somewhere in Central Park.
Everything around me was rushing, the wind in the trees, the cars down the streets, and people on the cement ground. I was hurrying to check on the small box you left on my bed with the notes:" To my Brother, Danny, in love, Jake."
It was still in the same place, down in my Backpack, under the stuff I shoved in before I left, some clothes, pens, a pack of cigarettes, my diary, and the picture of us. Adrenaline was still roaming through every part of my body, my hands shaky, my feet heavy, and my eyes sore.
It's not easy to light up a cigarette when your hands are shaking, the people around noticing, mourning, whispering:" Aren't you too young? Way too young, it's not healthy."
I wasn't too young, not too young to smoke, drink, lose my brother, or kindly tell you to:" FUCK OFF!"
We had to deal with them every day, old, grumpy, wearing their I support wearing dead animals coats in September, judging whoever does not fit into their world, people.
The last time I had to deal with it, it ended in some colorful lines all over an old lady's coat, in red, crimson red, she was screaming and scolding, and we were running down the street, around the corner.
The smoke of the cigarette was dancing in the last lights of summer, around the beautiful orange and red tops of the trees, before it disappeared.
I squeezed my Lighter back into my jeans, deep down between empty bubble gum papers, some dollar bills, and a used tissue, that left a light wet feeling along my finger, you feel it once the air touches your skin, this part feels colder.
Chilly, smooth winds moved between the trees, people, and bushes, like ghosts or souls searching for someone to possess, they could have taken each one of them, their souls were already lost, gone, broken, locked away, probably poisoned.
My hand was searching for the last bucks again, it found them, and counted them, while my head was trying to separate the thoughts, one got blown off, over the bench, touching the little stones on the ground, into a hand.
" That's yours, man? Better watch it."
His hand was reaching out, holding up this one dollar, a hand marked by the years he already lived, and the work he had done, the rest of the hand looked way younger than expected, used dirty clothes but with a smile all over his face, there were those little wrinkles in the ankle of his eyes, showing a glimpse of the bunch of smiles he must have shared.
" Keep it, man, you need it more than I do, it has chosen you anyway."
" I'm sure one day it'll find its way back."
Putting the gift into his pocket, he left, still smiling, wandering around the rushing creatures, until he disappeared into the crowd. So did I, to find a space for the night, sirens made me feel chased, watched, as they passed by. It took time to find somewhere to stay, just a mattress would have been enough, but I found someplace, a complete bed, a bathroom, and some walls around.
It was September 22, 2017.
Merci pour la lecture!
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