The man in the red suit carefully placed down his pen and crushed his almost finished cigarette on the nearest ashtray. The habit of light-inhale-puff-crush started back in his early twenties. Back then he wanted to be a cool writer; in short he wanted to be the next Stephen king; mysterious and weird, only much cooler. So for a while he lived his life without a care in the world. Smoking and drinking regularly were some of the habits he referred to as cool. He often called himself a bastard, one who had no one and did not care about anything except of course his writing gifts. Yes, at that young age he felt his ability to put his unique thoughts on paper was a gift from up high. It wasn’t until later in life when things became clearer that he decided that writing was not a gift but a reflective curse. For years during his mid-twenties, he felt he was a mess; society’s outcast, and the only reason he thought so was because as a writer he had to bring so much onto the table. From his troubles to the worlds various issues, he just but could not stop writing about these things. Those were the days when ancient riddles always troubled his young and fresh mind. The man in the red suit ordered for another drink, “The bartender by now would be thinking of me as just another old loser by the bar,” he thought. “Spot on,” He confirmed to himself.

His old age could not hide his many troubles, troubles that had being carried over from his young mind into his old feeble bones.

“No wonder they say writers are the world’s oldest historians,” the man in red said not caring if anyone heard him. “The same words we struggle to paint always ends up stabbing us right on our hearts.”

“What did you say sir?” the bartender asked.

“You know I could’ve been a bartender, maybe life would have been different,” The man in red said looking right into the bartender’s eyes.

“You can never tell sir,” the bartender injected. “I enjoy what I do, but I don’t necessarily like it; it’s a blessing and curse at the same.”

The man in the red suit smiled upon hearing those words, and wearing a large grin he replied; “A curse you say, well you talk some sense, but here are some words from a much older fool to younger one, listen, too much sense in this insensible world might be what takes you early to your grave.”

“And what makes you think I’m afraid of dying?” asked the bartender.

“How should I know, all I know is some go earlier than others, it doesn’t matter if you’re afraid or not, just start saving some money for your family, and before I forget I need my drink please.”

And without a word, the bartender turned his back and brought him his drink. The man in the red picked up his drink, gulped some and lit himself a new fresh cigarette. With his lit-inhale process ongoing, the man in red once again took his pen and wrote on a crumbled paper:

Like the book of vain

We all wait for the end

A strike too many

A fall too lengthy