One could die too far for anyone to care

I started writing this short story a long time ago, and somehow at the time I started I thought it was just an story. Then I started to realize this was only the tip of an iceberg; and that the real bulge was something much darker and deeper inside. I’ve developed the story much further; here is the first chapter (and this chapter needs a lot more work — it is too condensed):

Sweet smell of recently watered grass filled his lungs. It was late in the afternoon. Familiar faces, familiar sounds, it was all business as usual. Little did he know that today would end very different from all other days. Strolling along 31st Street, Jim arrived at his office. He had been practicing law for far too long to remember all his past clients. It was always business as usual: check the mail at the end of day after the hearings were over; check the land-line voicemail, the snailmail; email was now on blackberry, so no need to check it; checking mail for those cheques from clients was always important: somebody had to pay the bills. It was a Thursday, so Jim left instructions for his ‘once a week accountant visit’ and then locked up and left for the evening.

It was only a 10 minute walk from his office to his home, on the corner of St. James Lane and 31st Street. Not a long walk by any account. Jim knew this was a special day. Something was different. The sweet smell of recently watered grass. It is amazing how one can remember things associated with smell of grass. Jim’s memory was filled with conflict. After all, he was no true believer; he defended the indefendable. “How do you defend the indefendable?” he always asked himself. Yet he was good at it. Someone would always make a mistake. That is how the system worked. Jim was good at that. He know the system well.

Sweet smell of recently watered grass had filled Jim’s mind with thoughts of past. Jim never locked his door. One may have said Jim did not care; one may have thought Jim had no fear. I know different. I know Jim’s fears. He was always waiting. Perhaps he would show up again. Jim had to go all the way this time.

Some say redemption is to be earned. I say redemption is a choice. Jim does not share the same opinion. Jim believes redemption is to be taken. Another case, another day, another opportunity to make a difference; to defend someone who deserves to be defended; a chance for Jim to redeem himself.

Jim enters his rustic flat – second floor. He closes the door and opens the window. He switches on the ceiling fan. Sweet smell of recently watered grass had filled Jim’s mind with thoughts of past. He drops his jacket on the armchair. He opens the fridge and grabs a beer, Sleeman (I like that; yes, that is what he drinks). He presses the beer against his forehead. He is not very fit; his knees hurt. He lifts his left leg with his hand and puts in onto the coffee table, and the coffee table moves forward; the other leg follows. The beer is finished; it was simply too hot to hold it for a while. There is no one to get him another; and he cannot move now. Jim turns on the TV; God save the remote. Flips through a few channels. The door is open.

Sweet smell of recently watered grass has filled the room. The gentle flow of air through his hair reminds Jim of him. Every waking moment reminds Jim of him. When did he leave? Where did he go? Jim is clearly upset and cannot help going deeper and deeper into himself. Only if Jim had turned right instead of left. He would still be here. Jim cannot even understand why he made the choice he made. Life is filled with choices, and our choices are all dependent on coincidences, or what we call, unexpected convergence; and as we get so close to what we expect is going to happen, we face total chaos: unexpected divergence. Was it really Jim’s decision, or was it fate? He has no answer for it. All Jim knows that he left without saying goodbye.

Jim asks himself every single day, “did I make him leave?” It is of no consequence, I know, what Jim thinks. Life will continue to be a pseudorandom set of seemingly harmless choices. The news is playing on TV. It is the same thing; day after day. It seems nothing can change it. Once a path is chosen and events add up, enough momentum is built that it takes a true rip in space to change direction. Is that what they call “fate” thinks Jim. Was it my fate to turn left.

Jim is very alone. Who wants to befriend the defender of indefendables? Jim often thinks of what his purpose is. He thinks too much. One would say who cares what one’s purpose is. We have to worry so much in life just to pay the rent and the bills. Who has time to reflect. But Jim differs. His life is now filled with questions: When did he leave? Where did he go?

A few hours must have passed by. I have no idea what time it is. Jim has no idea what time it is. But it is dark, and the room is filled with sweet smell of recently watered grass. There is something in the kitchen. Jim gets up. It is too dark. He walks toward the kitchen. His left foot hits the armchair’s leg. His toe nail is infected. He screams in agony and turns to his right. His right foot misses the single small step at his door, his hand pushes against the door, the door opens completely, and Jim flies down the stairs. He feels no pain. He is down and cannot move. He feels no pain. The raccoon runs by him. He remembers flowers. He remembers the sweet smell of recently watered grass. He remembers nothing more; and he is there no more. There will be no redemption for Jim. There will be no redemption for Jim in my story.

Fading Away

This is one of the very first poems I ever wrote. I did put this onto some blog at some point, and then for some reason I never put any other of my poems up. I still cannot find a reason to put the others up; but somehow I need to put this one up again. It marks the start of my expressing myself.

I have sailed too far from my base,
I feel there is no hope for my case.
I have sailed through a very thick fog,
Oh God, my ship is nothing but an old worn log.

The waves pound at me from left to right,
Nothing in life seems to be going right.
I feel I am not wanted my dove,
I am definitely in the wrong waters my love.

I know something wrong was done,
I did it to myself, believe it my love.
My guiding stars are all worn out,
Or maybe they just don’t want to shine out.

It does not matter, I will hold on to my log,
If that is all I have left in life, it is still my ‘fracking’ log.
I may die tonight, or I may see tomorrow,
It does not matter: I am too far for anyone to sorrow.

About my writings

Most of what I write here is totally unplanned and spontanous, and most of the time it is due to some external and/or internal stimuli that compells me to express myself. I don’t think about what I am writing at that time. It just comes out. So, please forgive the grammar et cetera.

Writing about nothing

Sometimes you just need to write something, even if it is about nothing. Sometimes there is something worth writing about, but you just can’t phrase and express it. This is my sandbox playground where I get to do what I want to do without worrying about consequences of what I say et cetera.

As a result, this blog will be primarily a collection of mostly nothing useful.