Tumbleweed Memories

by Matt Triewly



The sound of the wind blowing through the trees. The trees swaying in the wind. Thoughts blowing through my mind. Thoughts. I feel tired. A little. Long day ahead. Looking forward to three days off. Thoughts. Ambitions. Goals. Desires. Lust. Avariciousness. Hopes. Fears. Plans. Plans that just remain plans. Withering on the vine.

Tumbleweed memories. It's wrong to tell lies. Is it? Wrong, bad, to get caught telling lies. A lesson not learnt. Another lesson not learnt. Clever people can be stupid. Lessons to be learned. Apart from close friends and relatives nobody gives a shit about you. Remember that. Remember this also: Don't piss off people who can and will do you harm. It's on a need to know basis. Trust no one. Trust no one unless you have no choice. Trust only self-interest. The basest of desires. We are all hypocrites, cowards, liars, thieves, adulterers, kinky. Don't tell me we're not. We are.

Branches rocking in the wind. The rustle and hiss of the leaves blown by the wind.

I'm old now. I feel old. Weary. Disenchanted. What to do? What to do indeed.

Shutters banging.

"It doesn't matter what you do there's always bills: electric, gas, house repairs, car repairs, petrol. Never enough money. Never enough left over," he says.

I nod. It's true.

Am I just going to fade away? But I want to live. Live fully. Be remembered. Never forgotten. For good. For evil. What does it matter? Satan. A construction. A creation. A figment of my imagination. Other's imagination.

There are no reasons. No sense. Only senses. Surrender is victory? Freedom is slavery, slavery to one's desires. How ironic. Live a life of pointlessness. It's all the same. Death is an illusion. I will not die. I cannot conceive of a world in which I don't exist. Impossible. Life is an end in itself. Survival is the aim of life. You can't win in this world but put off losing for as long as you can: voice in a dream. Sometimes dreams tell us things. Sometimes.

The sun shines through the window. Brightens my notepad. Makes shadows of my fingers. As I scribble the shutter bangs. A speck scribbling in a universe big beyond conception. Yet I am the centre of that universe. Weird. Absurd.

The shutter bangs louder and harder this time against the frame. Against my consciousness.

Dark clouds speed across the grey sky. Rain will come. Good. I like the rain. Rain is here. Suddenly. Sodden grass. Muddy paths. Two people with umbrellas picking their way across the grass. One umbrella blown inside out. Gusty. Blustery.

You fucking humiliated me as a child!

I wake up startled. It makes sense. She did humiliate me as a child. Repressed anger. I loved her though. She loved me too. Humiliated was the right word. My subconscious had been searching for the right word for a while.

Am I an emotional masochist? A neurotic time traveller of my mind. My memories. Are my memories clear? We use and shape history to justify the actions of the present. We all do. Don't tell me otherwise. Don't bullshit me. But I will lie to you. Hypocrite I am. Wish I'd been more skilled at being a hypocrite. I'd have more money now. Money delivers your desires. Regrets.

She takes her jacket off in front of me. Middle aged. Fat arms. Bingo wings. She does nothing for me. Why was I thinking of sex?

High winds now. Will trees come down? Footsteps crunching on the gravel. The rain is heavy now.

The same old questions. The same old remarks. Tedious. Wearing. Leave me alone. Go away people.

She's blonde. Brown eyed. Pretty. Tanned face. Superdry Japan jacket. Common. Blue jeans. Slim. Yeah, I'd fuck her. First decent looking female all day. Mainly old here. Shuffling along.

Sun out now. I had a snooze at lunch. Not long. Maybe two to three minutes. Feel a bit better. Still need a new job. New interests.

Funny old thing life. When we finally get what we wanted we suddenly want something else.

Blue sky with fluffy white clouds. The breeze is gentle now.

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