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Thoughts of a Dead Man: Prose for a Pose Series

I have an affinity for the contrast of light that creeps past a pair of black, cloaked curtains. These curtains...they’ve just been hanging around, not really doing their job this morning. Maybe they’ve gotten too comfortable. Perhaps it’s just the dust they’ve collected; who knows?

I think the birds are on holiday. I used to hear them, but their chirps and song have been replaced. The electronic whistle from my mobile device can chirp if I ask it to-- like a bird, like a bell, or a train. Hell, it can bark. Quacks even! That’s beside the point.

The frog in my throat won’t let me speak and I’m parched. I need something to relieve the gunk from my eyes before I can move towards some water. What happened here? Feels like decades have passed me…am I sweating?

On Monday I stopped by and it was all business; hustle and bustle. The usual-- folks dressed in tight sweaters and ties, ordering mocha’s and decafs, calling each other Paulette or Pete. All I had was a whiskey. You can call me whatever you want.

Tuesday was the real day for business. I walked into a meeting. Didn’t notice a single sullen face in that room. I didn’t care to look. I just watched the slides click. Just copy and color. “Words will really sell ‘em!” he says. “What about the picture?” I mumbled. I should’ve spoke up. I walked out instead.

Wednesday was good. We all love Wednesday. They balance out the universe. I took a mircroperm to paper, and it turned me on. I felt like diving in and changing my perception. The paper needed depth. There’s not enough depth on hump day. I guess that’s why we we all wet our whistles. A friend and I strolled into this rustic dive. It was just the ticket! Dim lit, masked with spirit, stacked with smoke, and carried just the right types for Eleanor and Father McKenzie to talk to. They got lucky that night. "Misery Loves Company" is the truest of truths.

It’s Thursday and I can really feel it’s so. We woke up together. The clock read 6:39am and I was late. Lucky him, he hadn’t a worry in the world that Thursday. I showered before I left. The bathroom looked nice. Don’t you just envy a modern touch? I stared at him through the foggy glass. He looked too good. I forgot I was still wearing my glasses. As the water steamed our night away, I had a hankering for more. Maybe I’ll have a cigarette and take photos of the cars on my way to work. I’m going to think about Thursday all day you know. There’s something about doing nothing in your bed.

Friday doesn’t really mean a thing. Especially since I already got started last night, Thursday–remember? Tonight, on Friday, I have to open my closet, choose some piece of material that makes me feel better about myself. I feel better knowing someone else wore this, and masqueraded in another time and place. I heard a man say that once. He loved his vest, and it looked good on him. He wore it peacefully. Like him, the tattered edges did not take away from how gorgeous he really was. That vest fit perfectly, but it had a missing button. Wait, could it really HAVE a missing a button? Never mind.

I’d like to talk about Saturday but it’s all just a blur. There was music, books, laughs, alcohol, lots of alcohol, paper, and pen. We also went to a show and danced a while. Dancing determines it all. No dance, no […]. I sweat when I’m nervous, and when I’m dancing.

My head hurts on Satur– no, Sunday! Yep, my head hurts so good on Sunday mornings. My eyes shut at approximately 3:49am only to open again at 6:03am. I’m not bitter. I like it when I don’t sleep in. But yeah, Sunday is over. I took the time to relax, recoup, and write. We brought life back to life if I remember correctly.

Wait, am I still lying on my back? I thought the point of this was NOT to think, err let thoughts go? I do feel relieved, relaxed even. My palms released an indescribable amount of random ponder. The breathing helped. If I could just not think for a minute, I bet I’d really get there. I’ll try again on Monday, for I am a dead man and a corpse pose I shall be. With open hands and facing feet, I charge my spine, release, and breathe. Here I lye, eyes closed and all, until the time to rise has called.

About the author: Monique M. Luna is a UCLA graduate, and currently resides in Los Angeles, CA. Her love for writing stems from a never-ending curiosity, and means of merging facts with fantasy. In her daily routine she provides ABA services to clients and families with Autism. Whether in-home, or on site, she uses these experiences to grow and evolve as a writer. She hopes that through her work and writing you are challenged to question, reflect, and accept with love, and open minds.