Deja Vu
The blow on head, the barely eaten steak, the wine which he never drank, it all was meaningless. He was a mess, a clear livable mess. A table, for two. For him, and for another him, but stressed. He didn’t know who was who. He looked at himself, looking at himself. He knew himself very well. He asked, 'Hey, why are you stressed?' The stressed one looked at him, 'After all these things, all these losses, you have the audacity to look into my eyes and ask me the reasons?' He never expected himself to be that rude. He remained silent. The stressed one got up, showed his face, 'What can you see? Can you see the bruises?' He gave a close look at himself. Bruises on the eyes, bruises on the face, bruises on the neck. Bruises were what could define him. He couldn’t see himself with these, b
- Writer
