Being

“What’s the f*****g point?” Asked a drunken, faceless man.

“Can you tell me what the point is? I’d really like to know.”

I told him drinking a bottle of whiskey every day. He was happy with that.

“I wish I was f*****g dead.” Declared a fat woman smeared with cake.

“Would you be able to eat cakes if you were dead?” I asked.

“No, I wouldn’t. I don’t care anyway, I hate my life.”I handed her a chocolate cake. She smiled. I was happy with that.

“Life has no meaning.” Sobbed a pale boy through precious tears.

“I know. There never has been nor will there ever be.” He cried harder. “Life is a canvas that we paint ourselves. I am an artist, so are you.”

“I am an artist?”

“Yes, you are. You will enjoy it. You can paint anything you like.” He wiped his face and smiled. We were happy with that.

“What have you done with your time here?” Whispered a skeleton with empty eyes.

“I have done all that I wanted to do.” I said, staring blankly.

“Have you had enough yet?” The skeleton asked as it placed its hand on my shoulder.

“I have, yes, I am extremely tired.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

“Very well. Come.” The skeleton turned its back to me and slowly walked away. I followed. I was happy with that.