Whisper

It started raining
the cement celebrated
as the dust particles slowly
bounced off with every drop of rain

His footsteps did not change pace
as the rain fell harder, his movement
stayed the same, leaving imprints of his soles
on the pavement
wondering, if someone like him
marveled at the intricate designs

His beige raincoat was polka dotted with drops
even though he could not feel the chill, he loved
the fact that the weather was changing
His muffled papers rested under his armpit
nestling safely, but not really
their edges were soaking
and he did not mind it

On the contrary, he loved the crackling sound
his papers did after his spills coffee on them
and now, rain

He saw as everyone rushed for cover
and he saw them eyeing him, wondering
at his serenity

Meet Jason Duggs, a journalist
well, nowadays, they call them digital journalists,
but not him
He did not believe in laptops, he loved pencils
and the way their lead tip, blunts after writing
He believes, that every time he writes
a word, a part of him gets eroded like the pencil tip
Then, every time he sharpens it, his senses get lucid too
excited for the next story, the next doodle or the next secret erotic book
he writes in, when he has time.

Jason lives alone in the Soho of a third world country
he moved him from Usitania, he could not cope with the individuality
of the country, he was outgoing, but he lived in his own bubble
the relationship he had with himself and the outer world
was very complicated
But Jason found a compromise, he always did
with a cup of whiskey, a pencil and paper

His thoughts always visit him
while walking, they always found it proper
to converse with him, while he solely went home
“maybe that’s why he isn’t bothered by the outside”

This time, one thought resonated
Having his job on a thin line of getting extinct
on though carved its presence
on the walls of his skull, it prompted him to think of a way
to revive journalism “vive le jounralism”

He stopped in the middle of the highway of people
on the sidewalk, soaking wet, with single hairs
drizzling droplets of rain and smiled
face down

“what if I create a story
that will only be featured in my newspaper
an absurd article about a love affair
that ended in a bloody note on the walls of their
love making chamber?”

“What if the jealous lover burnt the room and fled?”
“would that make people drop their tablets and grab a paper
for christ’s sake, reuse the paper to roll your cigarettes
just let your eyes practice the original art of reading”

As he lifted his head to concentrate on the path
he was walking on, he passed an art gallery
he saw her there, with a red ribbon wrapped around her hair
she looked  back at him, she giggled at his sight
wilted papers and droopy hair

He froze, it’s been a while since he felt that
she then smiled
and splashed red paint
all over the canvas in front of her

“Did she hear me?”
“Was I speaking loudly
or is she my long lost soul mate
beautifully sitting there
harnessing a tad bit of evil?”

“Coincidence” he yelled,
as if silencing the voices in his head

She was in front of him
with colored paint everywhere
on her hands and in her hair
under the rain
she came close to him and whispered
into his ear

“or is it?”

His stiff figure melted
as her sweet voice caressed his insides
and suddenly a smile
slowly started to form
on his
face