Chapin City Blues

Writing is writing whether done for duty, profit, or fun.

Via: WeHeartIt

Last night, I killed a cockroach. It was a giant motherfucker. I crushed his upper body and then tried to finish him off. But like I said, he was a giant motherfucker.

It didn’t work out so well. Instead, he just laid on his back twitching. His front legs grasping the air. A sense of panic filled me. I’ve killed many roaches with one quick step. But this guy was different. This guy hadn’t died when I stepped on him. And it left me wondering, what do animals see when they die?

There’s a scientific explanation of what we see when we are dying or have a near death experience, but like all theories, it doesn’t hold much ground. But it makes sense to me, so much so, I’m beginning to put faith in it.

I went to my “office,” as Javi calls it, and shut the door. I wanted to just let out whatever I was feeling, but I was afraid that the college players would hear me and the last thing I needed was a bunch of white kids think Mexicans are irrationally emotional.

I think it’s weird that I’m still on this trip. It’s dawning on a year now. Today, when I went to pick up a few essentials for the kitten, I strolled by the church of my childhood. I’ve been dreaming – both nocturnal and daydreaming – about revisiting its walls under better circumstances (non-funeral).

In the past, it was easier to compare my life to a film or television series’ ending. The latter making more sense, stating that when something happens, I feel that it’s the end of one thing and a beginning of another. It’s clichéd, I know, but it’s my cliché. I’m a cliché and I’ve come to live with this.

To all those that I loved. And to all those I will love. And to those I’ve left behind. And to those I’ll never forget.

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