The Faux Pas Press #102
The Bubbles
By Jason Fresh
I have been taking all the days of my life. According to the past I am and will always a molded figure - I'd like to believe that I am a curtain waiting to be unveiled, a dog waiting for his unrighteous fight, a piece of steel crushed over an anvil, sparks spraying around the darkest rooms - people in darkest corners in amazment. There is not much to be said for me except that there is no common consensus, no common plan on which to write the future. Today, today I am mad for life and mad at life in the same breath. There are enemies all around.
I refused the first bubble - people everywhere buying houses on borrowed money. I will refuse the next two bubbles to come. How much money is someone willing to invest in you? Who is willing to invest in you? I don't know. Bubbles fucking everywhere - not like the kind my daughter blows. Bubbles of imaginary reality - not truth. Just play with them, blow them across the room like Lola does. Realize however that they will burst. Bigger and bigger they may be - always a bigger mess to clean up.
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