death lesson - 29

"writing is a form of prayer."
                        - Franz Kafka


 It always comes back to me in hell, thinking, waiting and praying. Ideas are dangerous things if I could tell a younger version of me one thing about ideas I would say "don't get one, don't go looking for one, don't think about it." Now redemption is elusive as salvation. All broken and shattered in the fixed position on a map I call home. Sitting at the typewriter wandering what is next?
    Karma walks into the room, his body a patchwork of orange and yellow. He has horns like an elk and legs like one as well. I remember a time when I felt like I knew karma. "you're my friend." I said stoned out of my mind. Lucy later told me "yeah he was making fun of you the whole time. You blacked out, and we just had a good laugh." than he made the universally excepted sign/symbol of fucking, taking his index finger and pushing it through his opposite thumb and index finger connected at the tips to make a ring and said "you know what I mean?" than he had another laugh I guess...
    Karma looks me in the eyes and says, "you have already smoked more cigarettes than me." than he smacks the one I just lit out of my hand. "here is the thing," than he raised his head up looking down at me "do you smell sulfur?" than I ran from him, all the while he laughed again as I locked myself away with my typewriter sending messages in bottles to an indifferent savior who knows I deserve whatever I get.
    It has been a long time since I have seen my daughter Josephine. I have heard mixed things on if she is real or imagined. Karma told me the other day everything I typed was a lie and that was why I am in hell. I don't know if I believe him, But I barely remember her face, just that she had rather large ears and that she hated me. So I read over the manuscript trying to find her and remember I have already mailed off those pages to my lord, hoping he will forgive me. Confronted with the fact I will never see her again. I think about judgment. "we never learn anything do we?" I say aloud. But then still that is kind of the point. "he forgets more than we remember." I speak with my voice quivering.
    Sinister is my cat. He is imaginary. He is called sin for short.  As he dies and loses one life at a time his nine live change as his name, Sin 1 for the first time hed died and so on a so forth till we get to where we are, sin 8..."yo only have one more to go, little buddy. So I take the gun out of his suicidal hands put it under my chin I pull the trigger and hear the pop and feel the cork hit my double chin. Sin just laughs at me, it is the nature of sin to laugh.
   

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