Religion Class, Fall, 2009

The strangest of the strange's eyes. Pure mystery. Do you feel? What's so small in my day? Should I excommunicate it? When the lady at the coffee shop asks me with

how am I doing? I see tired in the mirror of her eyes, is it her or me? Her night job is piercing artist. Her words, gage 6 in the drums of my ears, please. Wake me up to the real question, and that is "How am I doing?" I take
as well. To breathe.
Her hands were light, I barely felt them through my skin. I am bleeding. Normal. I smile. A monochromatic type of smile, followed by some nodding "How are you, dear?". She doesn't hesitate, her answer was not automated although she held a Glock to my head and shot me: "as good as only I want to be". Seriously... is it just me or are you all also noticing the message she has just delivered to me?! Was she also a mailman?
Then I gulp down my hot coffee. Shot of reality (stop overthinking). A brownish stream of artificial sugar mingled with (can you just drink your coffee??!) soy that is transformed into milk (oh my God, this is FASCINATING) swimming in my stomach?
Remember when I put 5 packs of sweetener in your coffee and you nearly spitted the whole thing at me? But you contained yourself (I need to contain myself). I had that jacket on that you love and you praise my looks a lot. You would never dare to stain my clothes. You become what you look like, no shit your eyeliner always looked perfect. Take me for a ride? You're an excellent rider. You pull back on the reins of intensity and shift your weight to the back of the saddle so we can both just be.
The smell of coffee with soy milk invaded my nostrils (another hit of reality), like some Mexican bastard trying to break into the border. I don't know Mexican boy if I can let you in. I'm Argentinean, I know I should, I understand how decadent you are, but I know nothing of brotherhood. I was the only child. Plus, my remote French descent despises your lack of refinement.
A kid is swinging her feet across from me. Kids always want to know and kids always ask why but they never overthink. When I was a kid there was no overthinking about how coffee smelled like. My mom made me the best coffee yeah, my underdeveloped childhood was great. I went to bed craving to wake up and have that coffee in the morning with bacon and eggs I don't know why I love so much when the train is rocking left and right, left and right. I don't know why my mom stopped making such good coffee. I don't know why she always left me 4 or 5 extras packs of sweetener (did she think I grew bitter?). Incredible, there used to be an appetite for breakfast living in my belly. Nowadays I can't take much more than just coffee. Abortion of appetite.


The train is pregnant of me.
I need to be born.
Was I ready for it?
Would it love me?
Would it just abort me...?
People in the waiting room might just leave. This labor has been lingering. I haven't worn a watch for years and years but I understand time. Whenever I dare to look at the clock it challenges me with peculiar times like 10:10 or 5:05 or 3:33, 7:07... numbers are so cold but these ones grinned at me. They wanted to fuck with me, that's for sure. I always miss 11:11 though. That was her favorite time. And I always missed it. Guess it means I will always miss her. I have always missed her.
You tell me again, what's so small in my life? Should I excommunicate it?!

Would you?
Ignore God?
You believe in something big. I believe in the small and I'm his biggest devotee.


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