I should probably introduce my self, I’m Sir Mongolus. Yes yes you’ve already heard about me, I know.
So, I’ve been told by my fellow friend whether if I was interested to wright something that would last forever, that could be traced through time in this technological sphere. I unthoughtfuly said yes. The problem arose when, as many of you young writers, had to decide on what to write. I must admit I was scared at first. What should I write about? Should I write a story? One of those tales full of symbolism, pain and hidden metaphors, which are unknown even by the writers themselves? I didn’t know how thus the question really was; how could I write a story?
It’s a tough question.
How do you write a story when you have no story? It’s like trying to fall in love with someone you don’t love. You give it a shot, because “why not? things may come out differently this time”. But still, not even deep in your heart, you know you’ll never love them.
Though I’m much too old now, I did once have a story. It was back in my 6th life. I was an adventurer, a dreamer.
Every night I roamed the hollow streets of a big decaying city. Screwed posh queens with pedigree whenever I felt like it. Looted all the best restaurants and fought the streets like no other. But there was something missing. Every night as I walked back to my place, I stopped by the dimly lit windows, observed the cats who sat on their couches by the stove. How they purred in ecstasy. I longed for love , I annihilated affection.
I found it eventually. Loving humans. Breakfast at 7 am, then a walk through the gardens while they clean my dormitory. Occasional divertimentos with defenceless rodents and duck size pigeons. Then my daily pelting of combs and brushes. Naps and finally diner time. 8pm. Everything a cat would wish for…But lately it doesn’t feel comfortable anymore.
The days vanish away with the sweet odour of cheep cologne from the ladies who’s faces are always long under their caked smiles.
Sometimes, when the autumn rain hits the celling, I recall the days of shelter, where I would hide under warm humming car engines, admiring how beautifully the rain fell on the silver road. How the car’s bodywork would sound like a tingling piano. And how when the storm was over the moon would peak through the clouds, filling my heart with hope. Comforting me, telling me how everything was going to get better. It did?.
She knows it did. She does. I don’t. How quaint; now I can only see her smile through her reflection on my water bowl. She bleaches it white and bright making even drinking from it impure. But I’m thirsty. Thirsty. Tired.
Is it that bad that I crave my hooligan’s life? Is it?
If only I would’ve known she felt as much as I did, I would have fled with her.
What am I saying? I don’t even know. I’m just a cat with an ailing mind.