Sellophane

Fiction.
I make it all up. One story after another, piled into an instant and then another. She said I could do something. Absolute and the abstract. Dialectics?Duality?
Maybe someday the boy who lives in the floor above me shall read something in a book that I might have absent-mindedly scratched. And being an avid Agatha Christie fan he shall concoct a weird murder story out of it and then obsess over it. Never willing to admit the entire thing to be a mere figment of his imagination?
Maybe someday I shall write the title for something and then write the piece? Maybe I shall look around me when I cross the road. Maybe one day I shall realize that everything I wrote was for someone and I never had the courage to admit it.
But then Maybe's don't really matter.
It's not even a true word, hitch-hiking on two other words. Incomplete and complete at the same time. What a horrible way to live your life. Forcefully clubbing two things like two colors. Each unable to melt into each other, thus obliterating their identity and yet not forming a new one. What a horrible thing to do? Blue and Red, not willing to mix and not willing to separate.
Maybe people important to me will die soon. Maybe they shall cease to be important before they die. Maybe I shall wish for such a thing to happen in order to dull the pain.
So many maybe's...they shall not mean a thing. Because tomorrow is a new day, but unlike celine dion I do not think it shall be such a beautiful day, the sun shall not rise with the promise of a new tomorrow and bathe us in the rays of golden optimism. I shall not believe in something that redundant. No I shall do no such thing.
Tomorrow is but another day, hot...humid...uncomfortable. Unsatisfactory, a struggle though you might chose to not admit it. Every second, each instant. It determines shades of your life. Aargh, we are all the same colour though arent we??