The tears of a clown


I sit here with desperation to go out into the world and do all the things to satisfy one’s self. I think about all the interesting women I might run across, and I think about all the clever things I will say. I gear myself to get ready. I push the button on the black box, and I’m quickly overcome by a flood. All I can taste is salt. I’m overcome. I look over to the black box. I am happy now. It is an extension of myself. It’s a place that I can go. It is a tool that I can use to communicate. I can make you laugh. I can make you cry. I can make you hate me. I don’t care. It’s my tool, and I am faceless. Just another thug.

I’m overcome by a flood. I taste the bitter salt. Why don’t people love me. Why won’t people notice me. I don’t know why. I’m just a thug. Perhaps I should change my tone. Nah, I’m going to push the envelope a bit further. What is an envelope? I’m just a thug. It’s time to put down the black box, but I don’t want to. I haven’t given it my all, despite the hours I have spent. It doesn’t matter. I’m not bound by the constraints of family or the constraints of a relationship. I’m a loner. I’m a thug. Don’t feel bad. I’m not always a thug, at least for 6 hours a night when the stars are brightly twinkly in the dim-lit sky. It might be dark in my fortress, but my memories are bright. I’m consumed with thoughts of my childhood. What a great childhood. If only I can go back. I will someday, but not right now. I must go to work. I really don’t want to go to work, but I’m a slave. I’m a slave to the black box. The black box that gives me so much joy in being a faceless thug in the super highway of life. Things are going to change. I can feel it.

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