The rush of being young, of feeling young. I live a life I do not want, a life I dislike, a life I hate. And it is the only life I know.

I went to the market looking for a writing board. One you could have seen laying on the laps of someone like Milan Kundera or Virginia Woolf laying as they put their imagination into words. May be I could transform mine into reality. False Comfort.

Of course I didn´t find one. So I thought may be I could ask a carpenter to craft one for me and a couple more for serious writers. Then I would make money from those. I decided to postpone those plans and head on to buy food for my dogs. Ah, my dogs. They don't see the life I live. They are beautiful and undeserving of all these things sometimes I do to them. I wish my thoughts could turn into reality, but I cannot find that goddamn writing board.

Every night I stay up late and my mind wanders from girls to home office affairs, from the food I eat to my aching back. And then I think about a tablet PC. Technology enables men - they say-, to do whatever they want to do wherever they want to. Does advertising change lives? I hear voices saying no, and my head spins with the undercurrents of a river, with stones in my hand, dragging me deeper as the flow leads me to a field where the river becomes a lake. Can a river become a lake?

I see green and I see more colors. I feel like I can touch them and be painted by them just like in a picture, just like in a dream. But this seems to be a dream as well, words flow from one topic to another just like in a dream. At times incoherent, at times not. Just like me, just like life.

And then I remember the stones and I am facing a labyrinth, gray and cold. No feelings, just sorrow. And I realize that sorrow is a feeling and I weep. I weep just like my dogs do when they are asleep beside me.
Tomorrow may be a day I face life hour after hour, but what will happen next? You can see my thoughts wandering, can’t you? Are you dizzy? Do they make you uneasy? I live with them. Every minute, every moment.

He’s not like every other man, people like him and admire him. He always knows what to say when they want to listen. And he always knows to stay silent when they want him to show “the way”. I can not admire this man. He let me down before. And love is not as they say, “something that survives for long.” It fades away too. Thus, at the end of the road I am left with the life I have to live, thinking of him and hating it. Then again, who is he? Am I him? Who am I?

Would worlds keep flowing if I had a tablet PC? Would I write a book and save it in a file for an unknown editor to decide whether it’s worthy of publication? That depends on whether it is interesting or not. So, since my life is in my words and my life is uninteresting. May be I will just keep it from my friends or maybe just read it to my dogs. Then, they will have reasons to weep wide awake.

I love my dogs, they just lay there while I do the dishes. They stare out the window following would-be mates, just as my eyes do. But do they wonder if there is any point in doing it? I wonder. I wonder and fail to find an answer.

My mind bounces back to him and I think he’s unlike any other man. But he has got a job and a boss and a place to go home and watch TV and a girl to call, just like any other man. So why do I have I think about him?

Counselor says I must find reasons to rise with the sun. Up every morning you must be, says he. No, pills do not work. And with this ideas I must meet my family. I can read love in their eyes, I can feel love in their embrace. My face, sadly, does not want to react. We are gathered just to be together and share life. What is the point of sharing life? I open the windows to let some light in, but as I do, I feel the urge to jump out and end the need for light. Does the sun feel bad about it? Does it take it personally? Will he rumble and coerce me to come to my senses?

I feel out of place. This is home and it is kicking me out. I set a plan. And I plan to stick to my plan. Does life start with a plan? Books I have read are full of plans. Goals. Targets. It seems like the journey consists of always getting somewhere. Other books say wherever you go there you are. Now it seems it stops just before it begins. But it also seems I invent the questions and answers I make and give to myself. Or maybe it is I invent the voices that invent them.

I am afraid he will go away when he knows about the voices and all these things that are happening inside my head while he speaks to me about life and children and business and fears and feelings. Why do I have to care about it? I am afraid of the answer. I do want to be near him, but I cannot possess his life. I cannot handle mine alone. And now he starts to talk about sharing life, about building something that lasts. I do not want something that lasts. I am having enough trouble meeting him with a smile and facing that smile before I start brushing my teeth.

I meet a dancer and she looks at me. She smiles, she does, but may be not at me. She’s young, as I used to be. It’s late and I miss my bed. May be it's too daring to picture her at home, beside me. I can understand why some men mumble when they ask her out. It's late, really late and she speaks to me, she offers drinks and wants to kiss. She's all excited and I just want to leave. Is this the reason I stayed up so late? Still, her waist swivels in front of me. She likes to dance, what can I do? I drink my beer, both sip by sip like all women do. Then I take big gulps in an effort to get drunk. And while I do this, I remember him. He was happy I was not a drinker. Now I am, and now one of my dogs weeps. Does it weep for me? If I had a writing board I'd leave a note. She goes to the bathroom and I aim for the door. People stare and think it's their turn. I just don't care, I want to go home.

The morning is here. Birds in the city mingle with cars that take some night-people home. But I never go home. It’s impossible to go home when you do not know where home is. The dancer called and I said "leave me alone". It’s time to sleep and I will dream of the dancer while the city comes to life, a life I hate. Sleeping comforts me. False Comfort. It will not last. Now where's that writing board?