I'm walking down the stairs in a dark alley. It's raining. If you can pin a place on fear, this is probably close to it. Lights are twitching and the swooshing sounds of cars can be heard. This is a cliché. Gray steps, gray walls. Full of cracks. I wonder what caused these cracks. Nature or man? Wind or gunshots? I don't have time for this. I reach the end of the stairs and I can't feel every single blood-cell going through my body. I can't feel my heart pounding and sweat coming down my forehead in slow-motion. I just can't see or feel any of these things. There's not enough poetry or movies in my life. No metaphors or subjectivism. Nothing will explode whenever a bad guy points a gun at somebody. That somebody dies. Families shall grieve. Explosives shall not go off.
The glass is yellow but probably not yellow at all. It's probably just the lights inside. It's transparent. I wonder if the color of lights has actually changed or just my thoughts. I wonder what is light. I have to kill six guys. This is really not the most appropriate time and place for this. The doorknob is gold and I'm not really sure why, but I'm grossed out by it. I feel like many unwashed post-bathroom or post-sex-with-a-hooker hands have touched this knob.
I twist the knob with my sleeve and the door slowly opens. This opening of the door, despite what I said earlier, did seem pretty poetic. As the door opened, the noise turned down. Gradually. Open door and silence. Confusion.
One, two, three, four, five, six. Six, five, four, three, two, one. I'm guessing these are the guys. They look at me, I look at them. They look at each other, I look the room. The light switch is just by the door. Finally a movie scene for me. There aren't any tables around, so I'll just lie down. The second guy on the left pulls a semi-automatic. Poetically speaking, that shit shoots fear.
I get a good look at where all the men are standing.
Click.
The lights are off, I'm on the ground and fear is already coming at me at more than a hundred miles an hour. These people don't even know me, but they'll kill me. That's hypocrisy, I don't even know them and I'll kill them.
There's me. On the floor. With six heavily-armed men shooting. With the lights out. Thinking about how there is absolutely no silence here. I can't see shouting faces when the shots are fired and that small speck of light appears. There is no classical music playing and the shots can't be heard. I can not withdraw from this situation. This is as real as reality. These guys are just stupid. They shoot right and left, but never down or up. You'd think they'd learn something from all the action movies they've probably seen. Maybe they like art movies and enjoy reading. Who am I kidding? They're wearing sport sunglasses in a basement and most of them wear more jewelry than old women. Maybe I should just kill them already.
I have eighteen bullets and I'm not the kind that misses. I sound like the kind that is a little bit too cliché, even when not wanting to be. I wouldn't describe the sound of a gunshot as "bang". I think it sounds more like a "pow" than a "bang" to me. "Ka-boom" doesn't even come close to what a bazooka sounds like. Gunshots don't sound like death screaming. They just sound like air being moved at an incredibly high speed. Things are not nearly as cool or mystic as books and movies tell you.
Three shots in each little piggy. Dead, dead, dead, dead, dead, dead. Ten minutes ago, these people had families and whatnot and I've reduced them to meat, carbon and water. This is death. No reaper. No extreme darkness (despite the current situation), no horse with red eyes or walking skeleton. It's you. Minus all the frustrations. This is absolute relief. I like lying down here. I feel sort of peaceful. I don't feel like getting up and turning on the lights. I don't feel like explaining anything.
Call it what you will, "bang", "pow", "ka-boom" or whatever, but as close as my head was to that gun, I'd be lying if I said I heard anything. I'd be lying if I said anything, really.

When was the last time you saw or heard something that no-one told you about? When have you actually seen an airplane fall and not just read about it or saw it on the news?
Your senses have been replaced. Reality has been replaced. It no longer is subject of philosophical questioning. It has been simplified and dismystified.
There's no more intelligible reality, only visable.
And still, we only see and hear. Our senses have been reduced as well. In our own cute aquarium-like society, there is no place for touching. There is no place for tasting. There is no place for smelling.
Our eyes have become our screen to the world. Two small TVs and two small speakers make up our reality. We are merely spectators.
What we see is shown to us and what we hear is told.
Action is impossible. Transformation is utopic.
Our participation in life is not necessary. We play minor roles now.
The people we were actually supposed to trust - ourselves -, we don't. We just ignore our human nature and let everyone else choose what we want and need and desire. We go with the flow, now. We want to fit in. We HAVE to fit in. It's terrible just imagining not having everyone in the world loving us.
Our small box of truth tells us everything. We must not question. We must not question. Hunger, disease, poverty.. That's all okay, as long as I can't smell the rotting bodies or feel pain in my stomach.
News about wars, starving kids in Africa, obesity, AIDS, rapists, pedophiles, murderers, chemical and nuclear weapons and between each one of these, is a fast-food or a toothpaste commercial.
Television and newspapers aren't there to fight the problems. They're there so you can get used to it. So you think it's normal. They flood and saturate you with images and causes and
opinions untill you get angry at homeless people or don't even notice them.

We only react. We don't act anymore.

I was walking down some stairs when right at the corner, she bumped into me. She said sorry and gave that awkward smile people give whenever they bump into strangers. "Pretty girls are just forced to be common. People expect them to act certain ways more than ugly girls. I feel kinda bad for them" I thought, still walking down the stairs. I suddenly felt my coat being pulled by my elbow and turned around. Soft-pink lips, dimple on the left cheek and nice hair. Well but not over dressed. "I'm sorry, but could we do this again? I don't want to be just some girl you bumped into going down some stairs. I don't want to be an ant in your life, you know? Someone you saw and won't even remember tomorrow. Imagine how many really cool or smart or interesting people we see everyday but don't recognize. Maybe some girl you've passed by could've been the love of your life. If only you said hi to her on the bus or whatever.." and she immediately blushed and looked downwards. "It's like we only do stuff to survive and the only reason we ever talk to someone else is to keep our freakshow society polite and completely functional. I don't mean to sound like a weirdo or anything but.." she struggled to find words, but sighed and continued "you know what, nevermind, I don't know what I was thinking. Sorry if I interrupted you or made you late for something. Nice to meet you, stranger."
Should I say "I agree with you" or "you're not really sorry, are you?"?. I chose the first. I thought she'd be more interested if I talked about her. "I agree with you. I think a lot about that, too. Everyone is always on auto-pilot. We pass each other without any human contact whatsoever. There's just no.. hum... warmth, I guess, between us ants. Coincidence or fate, we were both at this exact spot at this exact time. I think that's pretty important. Whenever we feel like talking to someone on the street we think that could be interesting, we should."
The lights on the wall by the stairs grow dim and it feels as only ours face are lit by it.
"This could be the most important part of our lives and we could've wasted it. We could've ignored and carried on, never knowing. I'm glad we met. And I'm not just saying."