Nov 27,2018

At any moment, you are woven with countless strands of time. You are a witness to the past, and a testimony of the future. You look at the present slipping away, drawing from the past and into the future. Every moment of your existence is filled with dimensions of reality and movement. Is time, an illusion; a sense out of something we cannot quantify? It is a surreal thing to observe- the patterns of change. The past, transferred to the future. In every moment, there is a history of a billion years, and then there is anticipation of a billion more to come.

I loved Jimmy Crone, unabashedly. I would be an intellectual for everything else, prying on the details and balancing numbers against risks. But his romances would tingle my senses, more than any other contemporary. I would often touch myself at most eerie places thinking of his words, as if they were eating at me. His ideas, the sense of everything he told as if he had it all personalized for me, and me alone. I met him once- pockmarked face, little man with a snuff-coloured hat, a little limp on one leg. I envied him. His gift. His blatancy that controlled me, emotionally, and tortured me physically. I felt a sexual tightness around his characters I would never feel with anyone else, ever. I hated him for it, as if he had snatched away my life’s right to be romantically involved with someone, to make love, to nurse a child, to live.

It is when you are violated with coccaine or methamphetamine. Your pleasure cortex is hacked, literally, figuratively. You would choose pleasure over life, over breath. Over pain.

He knew it. He knew about my uncontrollable lust for his words. He would always start his story with a note to his reader-” to all my readers I make love to every night, every little teen-er, desperate housewives or forlorn Granny who calls me to them and reads me on a torch under their blankets, shut out from the world of jealous little men. I love you!”
Liar. Liar. Crone. I would always imagine him as a speckled old witch concocting a gooey syrup with nails of bats and tears of babies.

I could take it no more. I would not take it no more. I grabbed his recent copy abd attended a book-signing event in an expo nearby. In the long line with countless other expectant fans,I saw him. Gray tweed with that same snuff-hat. He smiled like he could smell love on you, and someone who took secret pleasure in it. As I neared him, he smelled of cologne, and lemon tea.

Hey there!

I could not respond. I was so surprised. He did not recognize me. He smiled like one would to his estranged mistress when he was with his wife.

Thank you for buying my book. Did you like it?

Silence. I opened up his Author’s note and tapped on it.

He looked at me once, and flashed, before spilling his signature on his note, clearly, as I wanted him to. He accepted all he had done to me with his own hands. His licentiousness, frivolity- he affirmed it all with his abominable sign.

He could not see what happened next. I pulled out my box-cutter and slashed his throat.

The Lyrictrotter