It's a small white plastic box with the names of contents of the box printed in ink that did not wash way when I held it under the rain. There is a rattling sound whenever I shake that box. Like stones getting crushed under a giant bulldozer or something. The sound is oddly melodious and I do it couple of times before I get bored with it. I rummage through kitchen for tea bags and secretly hoping to find them. I toy with the idea of actually getting out of the house and walking to the nearest café and getting some decent food and tea. Perhaps I could carry a book with me. The book will be a "smart" book written by a famous Russian author with an unpronounceable name who did something during his childhood, something equally immature as an adult and participated in a war. I would sit in that café, pretend reading that book and display an intellectual persona but secretly wishing that someone – anyone who comes to this café would accompany me at my table. Sometimes it's nice to experience a human touch. Only sometimes though. I give up on searching for tea bags and pick up a bottle of pineapple juice. My left hand is still clutching that little white plastic box. There are no glasses in the house. Come to think of it there is no cutlery or furniture or anything that comes in the mandatory list of possessions for a house. I can see a faint sheet of dust on window panes and floor in living room in the pale moon light. I ignore it completely and walk towards porch. I sit on the ground; it more looked like I was sprawling though. It's completely dark outside. Oh yeah, my house doesn't have electricity either. I take a huge sip from the bottle. From where I am sitting, I can see my mailbox spewing too many manila envelopes. I am sure most of them would be junk mail. Junk mail included birthday cards, invitations, friends pestering me to get a life; relatives’ exclaiming what the hell was wrong with me, so on and so forth. Junk basically. A close friend of the family had even stopped by to wish me on my Birthday. I remember telling him that birthdays are celebrated for pure selfish reasons; simply to be the center of attention, get friends and family to fuss over, eat great food and pretend everything is pretty and dandy. I heard him mutter “cynical psychopathic moron”. I had shut the door on his face. It was quite comical the way he was spluttering, trying to control his temper and his face looking like a fried tomato. After that I had thrown my cell phone in the dumpster.
I take a larger swing from the bottle. It’s a pretty quiet neighborhood. So when people living next door started a yelling contest, my ears automatically caught the drift of conversation. It was the same old story. Perhaps it’s the most common element with every married couple all over the world. I am sure even Eskimos in igloos and cannibals in some remote parts of
I reread the names of the contents of the plastic box. Not that I have not read before, but just like a distraction from shouting. I see the kid of yelling parents quietly sitting in the room with head phones on and swaying to the music only the kid has access to. Good. The kid is already getting exposed to reality; no dreams of lace covered wonderland, satin smooth easy on the ears conversations or picnics on butterflies filled green meadows where one family competes with the other on the grounds of ideality, family values and happiness. Even when everyone knows the other is putting on a show, they simply rectify their mask closer to perfection and indulge themselves with the competition. It’s really sickening. I can hear my conscience admonishing me. It's like a little guy is sitting inside my head validating each and every decision I make before I actually execute them. This little guy has a head phone with an attached microphone and keeps listening to my thoughts and gives his expert comments. I guess during the time he takes his tea breaks are when I take ridiculously stupid decision. I still blame on him anyway. Not that he cares though.
I rattle the white plastic box again. This time the sound scares me a bit.
The couples continue to fight but the voices are much subdued. People stop caring for one another in sometime. They become lonely yet having a family. Those two are not really mutually exclusive. People stay together because they tolerate each other.
Toleration.
The bottle is almost empty and I don’t feel like getting up and fetching more. Not that I have anything edible left in the house. The whole world runs on toleration. It doesn’t really matter if I like a person or if I dislike a person. The question is can I tolerate a person. If I can tolerate then I would identify that person as friend or acquaintance or boy friend or girl friend or fiancé or lover or wife or husband or whatever. They are different words to describe the levels of toleration. I don’t necessarily have like someone to tolerate. Perhaps I can learn to tolerate. Nothing is forever or permanent after all.
I am still thinking what to do with the little white plastic box. The contents are completely illegal and I had enough to get a fatal overdose. But the point is, well I never really had a point to begin with and if I did had a point, well then I had completely forgotten. I toss that box and the empty bottle in the dumpster. I take out mop and pail and start cleaning the living room. Looks like I am going to be here for a while.
Next Day:
The white plastic box that I had thrown last night had opened after it's impact on the ground. The content lay splattered on the ground beckoning me to pick them up like an old lover. I stomped on it and sincerely hoped that tonight’s rain will wash them away. I hummed an old tune and made my way towards the nearest café.