yellow paper file, bringing a smirk to the man opposite’s face. Regardless of the nature of the deal, ‘shady’ or otherwise, I admire what I sense to be ambition. Hell, I would’ve been a lawyer if I hadn't found a better path, away from all their systems and the ‘corporate ladder’. It reminds me of restless nights, much like this one - all - be - it being full of tiresome long hours, and without external motivation. And yet there was the will to march on. I inspect my watch, and to my surprise it is two ‘o’ - three A - M. Slightly flustered considering the busy day ahead. I pat down my pockets to find no phone. No wallet. No way home. Those who I knew had already made their way home, by way of cab or chauffeur, and it becomes violently apparent to me that I have no means home. Oh well. I’m inclined to indulge in a night of
adversity. It’s what my character and empire arose from after all. So once again, I take a step into the unknown, into discomfort, as I walk out from the Porte Cochere and into the elements, rain dampening my white suit shirt and slackening the wax in my hair. I begin to walk down the centre of the street, my black leather shoes becoming more and more malleable with each step I take. My vision blurs, and a great big smile springs up across my face. I walk by neon lights, dazed, in ecstasy. Reality is made up of two parts; objective and subjective reality. The subjective is what makes even the harshest parts of objective reality bearable, even stimulating, all by choice. In the context of subjective reality, I have found a remarkable way of bending the confines of reality to my will; indulging in my own self story. And so, as the rain picks up and lashes down upon me, and I relish the experience. Car tires squeal, and exhausts pop into the aether of what was once a quiet night. I
draw back into a deep focus, taking note of the nice, warm blood coursing through my arms and wrists; the night growing colder. As the weather grows more and more unbearable, the more I dig in my heels. I continue my walk to nowhere and have a wave of deep relief crash over me. The thought of my ancestors gazing down upon me from the heavens as I stare up into the starless night sky creates a zest and vigour in me. I shout and cheer. The high - rise building’s echo bellows back at me. I walk, and I shout, until I come across an alleyway. The homeless scattered the length of it, either visibly unwell or unconscious. A young woman catches my eye. She lays with what appears to be her two sons, no older than 6 or 7 years. The three of them lay under three - quarters of a large cardboard box, propped up against the brick factory wall. The box being the only thing sheltering them from the bitter cold stings of the rainy night. She is wearing a muddy brown wool coat, a ragged green blouse and a pair of ripped blue jeans. She bears the ‘thousand - yard stare’. Her
68
Made with FlippingBook flipbook maker