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the chapters :
° side a
side b

the fiction :
° summer on the downhill
° today sad tomorrow mad

# the mixtape : the fiction part 01

++ summer on the downhill
+ Everything's different from what I think it is. The doors don't have no knobs, so I have to kick them with my already wounden feet, and the windows with curtains of newsletters don't let any light in. This is my first vacation job, I guess.

The holidays have already begun and I was forced to elect suffering the glow of hell instead of glowing in the summer sun with friends. My eyes are crossing a room that is clouded by smoke and dirt. What I see reminds me of everything that could be good in my life. Each thing that could happen only to make me happy or lets me rest for a moment of peace.

It’s my body that’s speaking through my bones to my brain. ‘Stop torture me!’ it says. But I have to, because I need the money. A easy but true calculation, so easy that it hurts. I’m not a beast of burden. I’m too young to die of exhaustion. My body should have the time to turn every hormone into hairiness, longer vocal chords and happiness. But now I’m standing with two wooden slats on my still tiny shoulder (hormones please hurry!) in a meadow not wider as myself (architects please rethink!) and learn what it means to go always forward even though garavity pushes you to the floor.

My dullness slows down the traffic. If I’m a car in this race, Lenny would be a truck and George the driver with nervous fingers on the signal horn:

" When you’re not strong enough, don’t pick two slats. And don’t let them fall or they’ll only be left for toothpicks. And I swear, you will never need them anymore, when I punch your untouched face for every slat that hits the wall."

His words don’t hurt anymore. I let George pass by and feel the cold wall at my back. After he’s gone and silence comes back, I hear the familiar voice in my head again. It speaks the same since I left the house this morning:

" This is not your fortune, you live a life of somebody who doesn’t know a girl like Isabel!"

Unfortunately I’m knowing her. I know how pretty she looks. I know how soft her voice is, and how throaty it becomes when she’s nervous. And I know how much she means to me. I stop trotting and close my eyes. The slats appears lighter while I’m leaning against the wall. My mind is tired too and my hearts gets heavier with every thought that slips to her. I stare imaginary ahead, gaze towards the end of the wooden slats and I see myself on a boardwalk near our sea. My feet are splashing in water and I'm talking gently with Isabel. Her head is cutted by the water surface from her body and I can only see the rest as a distortion. But I'm really sure that's her because I have this fresh taste in my mouth that only comes out, when I’m happy.

A plane is crossing the blue sky and leaves a white straight trail. The sound rouses the ducks out of the reeds near the bank. So we have to talk very loud, but anyway I can’t understand her. The plane and the ducks are getting noisier. I lean forward to catch more words but I'm overbalancing and fall down. I liked to open my eyes to see what’s under the sea, hope to see a world beneath trouble and pain… to see her next to me. But after open my eyes it’s only Lenny who looks into my face. For how long I don’t know. He doesn't talk much, but I know it’s better to step beside and let him pass.

I follow the meadow till I feel the warm sun on my back. I’m outside the site and I'm breathing fresh air. The glaring light dazzles me so I have to close my eyes. Some spots dances wildly on my lid and one of it looks like the shadow of a girl, that I know. Without noticing my surroundings I put the slats in a container. A metalic sound proves that it wasn't move in the last ten minutes.

The next time I will take only one slat. One is enough to don’t let me rest halfway. Halfway means thinking of Isabel and halfway means thinking of a lost summer. Besides with Isabel it could have been be my first summer at all.

This is dedicated to John Steinbeck and his mice.



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