Neither Fact nor Fiction

He was thinking while starting to iron four pairs of his pants; what an extraordinary thing he was doing! He was ironing some articles of clothing, but it had taken him so long to get there right behind the ironing board with the iron in his hand.

He was living a life independent of all those who’d make him dependent any given day and after such a long time, this was a relief.

He wondered while ironing why his father would speak THAT loudly in the other room at 3 AM while the TV was on so loud and the tea and rock candy were being stirred in the glass with the thick silver spoon at the speed of light, all while he was trying to have a few moments of calm.

Those gray pairs of Dockers were really hard to iron, he thought while pouring some more cold filtered water in the iron container. Just to have added some more steam to work. That always helps smooth things out a bit.

Another thing that made him puzzled was why one day he and his mother stopped talking and then after some long time even though they wanted they just couldn’t see why they should talk and they in fact did not! This was kind of funny to him.

Fall was just behind the closed windows along with an evening drizzle. The change of season for him was always something of pleasure, although his skin had suddenly gotten so dry and ashed. it was fine though; after all, autumn was a time of great change; he knew that and was thinking of it while almost done with the gray pair of Dockers.

He had thought of some values all along his life; you know, values for himself. Although he was a free spirit, recently all he had done was seeing them shattered into pieces one after another. He was counting the number of people he had slept with in the last 2-3 months; it was a very considerable number of people for such a short time. He had even killed a man for no apparent reason just the other night; had just strangled him to death while looking at him suffer; This was most definitely unlike him and it had left surprisingly little guilt in his heart; a murder in his list was very very shocking. He did not approve, but of course disapproval was just pointless.

As he pressed his thumb to spray some water on those dry, dark blue jeans, the kitchen window was somehow blown by the sudden evening breeze which had turned into something more than a breeze: a wind. The window was open and he could hear and smell the drizzle. It would always lift his spirit in a very special way.

Lately, all he had been doing was living in different houses, with different people, trying to spot a home. So far he had just returned to the only place he has ever truly called home. outside, his desires would always push him too far; at home, even at its worst, it would always be more safe. Well, for the most part.

But he’d always keep those khaki ones for last; the ones with an endless number of side pockets; they were very tough to iron and unwrinkle. Yes, it was now time to get those really tough, wrinkled pairs. He needed them for the journey at hand. It was close and he really would need the khakis.

The love and liberty he was looking for was both dangerous and rare. It was the kind of thing you would really have to man up to. But he had been ready and prepared for such a long time and now it was finally time, he though.

Now that he didn’t have a family, now that he was homeless, now that the seasons had turned once more; and more importantly, now that he was standing behind the ironing table, almost done ironing the tough khakis.

3 thoughts on “Neither Fact nor Fiction

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