Why The Sour Face My Friend?

The badness of Satan had gotten into me. I must have accidentally invited it in. “Oh no,” I thought, somewhat feebly, “the badness of Satan has gotten into me.” It was more of a mental whisper than a thought – a very faint mental whisper with no real feeling in it. I wasn’t really protesting that much. I didn’t really mind – I actually kind of liked it. That’s what the badness of Satan does to you – it turns you, just like milk can be turned. People are a lot like milk. I’ve often thought that. Don’t you think people are a lot like milk? Especially the sour ones. The rotten old sour ones. You meet a lot of them, or at least I do. I always seem to be bumping into them. You know the type – they can’t ever smile, no matter what. Smiling is an alien concept to them. They can only look at you in that rotten old sour way of theirs. Trying to pass their badness on. “What’s wrong with you,” I’d like to say. “Why the sour old face my friend? Did you just step in something nasty? Are you having a bad life? Do you want to talk to me about it?” The problem is that they have been turned, of course. They’ve been turned that way by proximity to other sour people. I was only kidding just then when I said that the badness of Satan had entered into me – that was only what you might call ‘an opening gambit’. Just something to hook people in, get them interested. Nothing of the sort took place, not really. I was only joking. I was making it up. I’m only fooling. I’m only fooling. I’m only fooling. I’m making this into a little song in my head as I go along, experimenting with various intonations, various cadences. I’m only pretending but now I’ve forgotten what I’m pretending. I’ve lost the gist and now I’m adrift. I’m adrift in a sea of lies. Aah that good old sea of lies – it’s so familiar. Such a reliable old friend. You always know where you are with the sea of lies. Only you don’t. You don’t know anything. I’m swimming in a sea of lies. Only I’m not, not really. I’m not really swimming at all, I’m cycling. I’m cycling on my own private cycling lane. I’m taking a walk down memory lane only the memories are all fake. I’m sitting on a recliner on the deck of the Titanic, reading a third-rate detective novel. I’m driving down a five lane motorway but it’s taking me nowhere. I’m in a hurry and I’m putting my foot to the floor. I’m flooring it. I’m gunning it. I’m going nowhere fast.

 

 

 

 

 

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