With money I couldn't spare, I morosely lifted myself out of bed this morning, showered, dressed, and walked over to a restaurant I like for a hearty bowl of menudo and delicious coffee. The place was packed and I had to wait for a table, however the waitresses are so awesome and the food is good and cheap, I didn't mind.
I sat and stared out the grimy, dust covered pane windows at the Saturday morning people as they casually strode to and fro on their weekend business. I was feeling so utterly depressed. I believe it was on account of plowing through fourteen decades of miserable occurrences within my blog in lieu of cultivating entries for my new book. I do have to admit, it brought on shattering suicidal depression this past week.
Where does one go from here? Is there an up? I am mired in paranoid stagnation. I literally do not know what I am going to do on all levels. It is truly sad. And the sadness is showing in every face which passes my gaze. I feel if I am a diving bell, cables severed, settled onto the black sea bottom. If that makes sense...
I paid my bill and took a stroll through the Plaza. Watched several performances - it is some type of holiday - took some pictures. I returned to my flat when as I turned down my street, a person zoomed by on a bike. He hollered in Spanish, "Hey, you remember me?" Ominous words in my profession, Dear Reader.
I asked who the fuck was it and he smiled "Oscar!"
Oscar. OSCAR?! Holy fuck! I have not seen him in what? Twelve years? I have watched him grow from a tween who ran with the paint huffing gang in the Plaza - he used to bug me all the time. (But, he was too young. I ain't no lecherous pedo) I have seen him grow into a very handsome twenty-something when he would visit me on almost a daily basis over a decade ago and now he has matured into a very striking thirty-something - albeit he was covered in splattering of white paint in lieu of a house he was painting, he meekly confided. Both of us stuttered our pleasantries and he asked if I would meet him for dinner and drinks later this evening at seven. How could I refuse?
He sped off to work and I stood on that warped pavement with my emotions all muddled. Oscar was the last person who I had deep emotions for - back when I had emotions for people. I was the one who fucked it up and regretted it ever since. The petty occurrence had haunted and burdened me all these years. I even had written a book loosely based on our time together entitled Puta.
Such a positive entity. He was the only person in Juarez who would visit without ulterior motive. Never asking for any money or special favors. He simply, as he stated once, "Enjoy your company." A friend in the very definition of the word.
I sit here in this cafe writing this and my mind and emotions are in turmoil. I had come to the accepting reality that I would live out whatever length of life I was to have in abstract solidarity and depressed loneliness and now...the thought burning in my withered mind is: Does one get a second chance? Or a third?
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