The sad tale of a sad tale teller

So why do I complain? why i have to submerged in my thoughts?...

"I remember you"...yes I remember her. Each time she laughs, each time she touches my fingers. Yes, I can remember her. I cant remember myself. The shower washes my body and I beg the water to wash my thoughts away, to wash who i am, where i come from. However, the water just hits me...I hear it giggling like it is making fun of me. I go to the mine early because I do not like the other  miners making fun of me and my wiry eyes. I have spent 35 years of my life mining coal, the last 5 with cancer. "Damn it, this life can never get easier." 20 years happily married. She is so sweet. Every day for the last 20 years of my life I have gone into that mine with her picture attached to my chest. She is the treasure which for previous 15 years i was looking for. I still wondering what she saw on me, I still blaming myself for not giving her the life she dreamed as a kid. I never knew whether she accepted my cancer or she does it because she loves me. I am so stupid, aren't I? I am a sad man even when i found the most beautiful treasure. I am still asking for more when everything has be given to me. This dark mine has contained  many of my stories and personal monsters, that is what I have always been afraid of...my monsters getting to her. That is why today i ask myself if she has witness them...I want to tell her that she does not have to put up with my monsters. I want to tell that I am very sorry that my cancer may not have cure and that one day I will go into that mine and won't come out. "why you love me?" i ask her...
A treasure has to be treasured...I don't know how to that.

Driving home

I realize that sometimes I have this urge to write shit...yes. I just feel like writing shit...S....H...I...T...shit. I worry that one day that shit will become so big that I have to create different volumes full shit, a encyclopedia of shit. No one knows this urge of mine for writing shit because then one day some shithead will come to me and say I like your shit and I will feel like my shit is good and would like to publish my shit and then my shit will start to smell bad and i would feel like shit surrounded by a shit pile of money. I don't want that. I just want to feel good about myself and my shit and above all i don't want my shit to smell bad...shit...you know how bad shit can smell. It smells like shit but shit shit. Ok, enough with shit and bullshit. I am writing right now because of my urge of writing shit so here it goes...
happiness is never constant, it is just sparkles in life. it is like the a power surge in the middle of a storm. Therefore,   we fail at picturing happiness...have you seen a power surge?...maybe..but the point is that you don't see it, you can't even look for it (i know you can provoke a power surge, but for this analogy i will refer that as "pleasure" and not happiness). Therefore, we can conclude that power surge can only be felt, and we can only see the the afterwards effects...shit...the blender is burned, the $1,000 freezer is burned, the PS3 with built-in blue ray is burned...all the shit that you thought you care about is gone. what is left it's the hope, and frustration that we have to buy everything again. Shit, so happiness is bad? nah i would not dare to say that. Happiness is good but we always try to control it at our convenience.  We try to make it work when we want it to work, we wish it comes when we are ready for it. For instance, if someone is happy in a relationship, that someone questions if the happiness has arrived, if happiness will go away, if happiness really came, or if happiness really exists at all and that someone just has to accept what life has to offered. When that someone leaves that relationship...shit...yeah that someone was happy..."damn it" that someone says and starts looking for happiness again but this time wondering if happiness will open its arms again. Shit, "happiness may not exists at all" that someone syas ans that someone will start waking ignoring the power surges that are happening around.  Another example, if someone finds the perfect job, that someone does not make a lot of money but it makes that someone happy. One day, that someone does not feel like going to the happy job because happy job has become routine job...ok ok maybe I cant explain well the job example...but i am sure you can. My conclusion about happiness is that happiness is like the shit that I write, I have the urge to be happy, that urgency is not all the time though. I  don't want my happiness to smell and i don't want a shithead to come to me and say that happiness is constant. I won't believe it. Shit...the world is full of shit that smells because we let our shit outside, because we let our shit fly. We fail at keeping our shit smelleless (i know this word doesn't exist) because we want to be happy out of all costs, we don't care if we have to be covered in someone else real shit. We do not value when we find that right person that power surge our head and their smile is the defibrillator that wakes our hearts. Wholy shit, that shit is deep...but we cannot let it smell.

When the Bed is empty

"so, what happens when you see the bed and it is empty? I can't stand the feeling of turning around on the bed the whole night without touching her legs for once. It's sort of like something that wakes me up form me being awake. How did I get to this point where I can't find myself without her figure on my bed...damn how I wish she was with me right now so I can push her away from me. Yes, I am weird. I can't bear the empty bed, i can't bear her being away, yet somehow i feel like whenever I have the chance I push her away anyways. And then...I realize again how empty my bed is... how empty I have become...how shallow. And then a dream comes to me where she is happy but not by me, where she laughs and sings and she has forgotten about that person who once push her away...I guess that is how it should be. She deserves someone who every night would kiss her good night. Someone who whenever she gets home she knows she arrives to the right place...someone who does not push her away. Yes, I am weird. And now, I am sad knowing that there is a place somewhere where she is happy, where she got home and she is laughing, a place where I don't belong. My empty bed has been chained to me, it follows me, it is my curse. So, what happens when you see your bed empty? I ask myself again and the only thing that comes to my mind is...nothing...just like the bed my mind is empty. It always has, it had nothing by myself inside...only me.
Time passes...I better laugh at my bed, I better laugh loud to fill my bed with laughters, i better scream until it is full of what tortures me...stupid bed."

The job of a bed is not easy. I have seen some beds going to bars for hours to release all the stress that the their bosses put on their frames. I have seen homeless beds, some have committed suicide, some have gone crazy. What should we expect when every scream, every tear, every sweep, every laughter, everything has been absorbed by osmosis by the hard-working bed. All what a bed wanted in life was to grow up, get married, have a couple of cribs, and live happily. However, nothing has worked out as planned. But that bed still remembers her smile, her perfect back, her beautiful freckles, her perfume...ahh her perfume.