The Letter

'Well, well, well... So here you are you presumptuous bastard.'


  And he walked at me, with his turned up nose and affected moves. He looked much more like a fat, old peacock than a human being. I couldn't help but laughing a little bit, whilst I tried to swallow a scandalous mocking impulse. It was utterly pathetic, but he just could not see it. Could he? No, indeed he was blind to that fact. He was bearing a smile - proud and large - on his pustular face when he handed me the letter.


'Please read it.'


'Is it for me?'


'Read it and then tell me.'


   I took a deep breath. And the air of the room had a flow of a disgusting smell, something like sweat and lack of sense. I opened the envelope and ran my eyes through all the weird punctuation, nauseating collocations and shallow linguistic murders. It all tried to make sense, but would not. Never. The author of this horrible expensive toilet paper was clearly a Narcisus without reflection. Some creature proud of flourished ignorance accusing the world of monstruous crimes. Even though the biggest crime of them all was to make this empty and narrow-minded heart of his to pump with the most delicious hippocra of life: warm blood.
   How can a lizard have blood licking his veins and flesh inside? Wait. He was not a cobra, not even close. He was an insect. A little bee... being carried away by the wind and trying to surpass its tiny brain and näive sting. A little creature living on the pólen of the damnest mistakes of ego and blind society. Someday it would hit a window. And then, only then... It would die, slowly... without even knowing what blocked the superb mission of... of.. of... completely nothing. Maybe feeding the big queen? The big queen being miserableness. Yes, that's right.So I replied:


'It's a fine letter after all.'


'Really?'


'It has words, it is printed on paper...'


'Sure. That's the definition of "letter", am I right?'


   I thought about this comment for some seconds. It was just ... contempt... screaming inside of me.


'Well. That's your definition.'








Vitor M. Vívolo 09/09/10