Waste 2

He wanted to make it last. He felt his latest poem was a reiteration of on older, rawer one, with a better command of language, but lacking in the spirit. "What the hell?" he reasoned. "No one will know." But he still felt bad, and a clever turn of phrase didn't ease the burden of an unoriginal thought. His use of language was the only thing he had any pride in: he could forage through the trash and wear rags, and it didn't bother him in the least, but expanding on a previous theme gnawed at him, especially when he put it out there for everyone to see. He could put some distance from the act by referring to himself in the third person, but that was also abhorrent to him. All he was doing was delaying the necessary act, the stripping away of his psyche for all to see. That was the first step he needed to take so he could reclaim his life while he still had some life worth living. He thought if he could step outside of himself, maybe then he could make an analysis untainted by fear. Even then, he hesitated. Now he only hated himself even more. He went outside for a quick smoke, and sang some old blues tunes. His cigar burned away as he gave all he had to the music, but despite singing well, with a great passion, at the end he felt even worse. He had sworn that the truth must be revealed, but he remained a coward about something no one would even care about, or that he could even do anything about. So he went up to his room, and in his luggage he found an old negligee that once brought him some brief glimpses of joy and put it on. Then he looked around, and finding a friend's pistol, he set it in his lap. At last, he had a solution: some of the truth could be revealed, and he wouldn't have to hear the questions, or face the stares. Just another dead closet case, sad but possessing some significance. Just as he raised the gun to his mouth, the phone rang. "Hello," he said. It was his sister. She needed help moving into her new home, and wondered if he could help. "Sure," he replied. "I'll be glad to." He put the gun down, stripped off the nightgown, and put the grimy t-shirt and ragged jeans back on. He went back outside to await her arrival.