75 years ago, kids like us were lying in trenches like sardines. You might call it a cuddle puddle now. You might also wonder if sardines have enough feeling capacity to deserve to be saved by vegetarianism. As you don’t have the mobile data to consult google, you shrug and bite into your pizza. Crimson tomato sauce sticks around your mouth as you finish the last bite. A friend makes a joke about vomiting blood. You suck on the joint being passed around and start coughing, tears shooting up your eyes like salty missiles. Is this how it feels like? Is this how it feels when your lungs start dissolving into slimy liquid while your gas mask wobbles around like an unpractical accessory?
You try to take another drag but the burning paper in your hand goes out and you can’t find the fucking lighter. You sigh, lying back into the soft warm sand. What a hard life. But it is supposed to be a tough July for Aries. Or so your friend with the many heavy crystals around her neck said after you told her you were born at 19:45 in the evening. You wonder which fates are determined by the positions of the planets and which by those of the stars and if the ones who died in 1945 knew that their fates were sealed.
Moaning and aching as if your legs were punctured by bullet holes, you make the effort of crawling up from the ground to get the lighter two bodies distance away. As you make the first step, you feel the hot sand particles pressing into the wound on the sole of your right foot where you stepped into a broken beer bottle the other day. How cool you felt, insisting to walk around the city center barefoot. How cool their feet felt, walking through the Russian snow without boots.
You light up and fall back into the sand, wondering why you are smoking pot at lunch time. It’s just hard to say “No” sometimes, you think and suddenly understand why those kids 75 years ago didn’t say “No” to war. Sometimes you drink too much and your friend offers you a joint and you fail to say “No” and after an hour or so everything gets dizzy and you sink to the ground and the security guard comes and throws you out of the club. You could just as well have been a corpse being thrown out of a train.
You roll over and watch the girl next to you playing the guitar. She has a tattoo on her left arm saying
you’re the hero of this story,
don’t need to be saved
Right under it, fresh cutting marks shine red in the sun of the cloudless summer day. Oh well, you think, we‘re all suffering. Some of us more than others.
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