Kipling’s Boots

Seven hours and seven weeks have passed since the last time I wrote. Months, have been four. Of course I have written in the meantime. Writs, emails, letters, contracts, agreements, permits, authorizations, a will, but not my own yet. It has been so long that I do not trust myself with this writing even, and I am seriously thinking of simplifying my lexicon, as between shorter words you find less trenches where you can be stabbed in the back to your end. Or mine. I have even considered leaving this task to a ghost writer, that not even I can see, feel or touch. A sort of intelligence that is so close, yet, so far, so clear, yet, operating inside a black box that, myself, a mere mortal, cannot fully comprehend.

Oh, the glory. Once these intelligences gain the dexterity to write directly what I am thinking, what I am assuming, what I should know, without me having to spell each word, each idea to them, we will be finally free of ourselves, ready to get lost in the void, the vortex, the abyss. Boots, boots, boots, boots. Moving up and down again. There is no discharge of this world! Going to my job. Not really mine. To my office. Imprecise. To my throne, to be king, along side other kings and queens. And an imbecile that I do not stand.

It is no even my throne, as it has been conquered by higher power, the Firm. Yet the Firm is owned by another even higher power. The Owner. And to the owner I am in debt. Thanks to him I keep living in this gracious, absurd, meaningless marvelous life. Oh, such an honor to share my air with the Owner. He is the proprietor of my nine to five, my five to six, six to seven, seven to eight and some times my tens. Boots, boots, boots, boots. Moving up and down again. There is no discharge of this world!

And there! Alas! Between one thirty and three I have my freedom! Time for men! Almost always, except sometimes, several times a week. There, I go to the gymnasium, to train the body and the mind. Time for me! I rack, unrack, push weights, and pull weights. From one side, to the other. Nod from time to time to the other free men and women, sharing our freedom. I rack, unrack. Push, pull. Pull and push. And nod, from time to time. Boots, boots, boots, boots. Moving up and down again. There is no discharge of this world! Just in time, before my freedom ends, I shower, change, prepare and walk back to my throne. In time, just as my eternal watch dictates.

Oh but the nights! The marvelous precious nights! The first hours in the morning is where I rebel! Audaciously! Fearless! My watch is no more responsible for my actions. After eating, brushing and laying in bed, there is still time to be snatched from tomorrow! Energy allotted in a time that is not mine! There I lay, silent, breathing through my nose, laughing internally to the nonsense that occurs in somebody else’s life. He does not know the meaning of boots, or he simply does not care. There is no end game, no ideal, no goal. I just watch once, twice, thrice. Tenths, dozens. Hundreds of videos, songs, elaborations, elaborations, elaborations. There is no discharge in the war!

After a short rest, a shorter sleep, my energy depleted and my life gone, I find happiness in existing between boots, boots, boots, boots. Moving up and down again. As there is no discharge of this world! I woke up, give a kiss, grab a grub, walk a walk, bus a bus, and sit in my throne next to other kings, and that imbecile I do not stand. There I laugh, I yield, I lay flat in my mind. Ask a little intelligence to be a bit intelligent. Write the writ, elaborate the elaborations. For other to analyze the implications. There I rebel, in silence. A meaningless meaning, meaning to be alive. Oh and what a marvelous glorified life! There is no discharge of this war!