Journalist

A Story by M.Kilani

A Collection of scenes from a journalist's life.

Click. tock . click

He got back after midnight, dragging the last of his energy to get to bed, drunk from all useless information he’d soon forget and burdened by all news he gathered through the evening. His pen yearns for his rough fist, his flat fingers and their dead skin, as he yearns her gentle touch her sweet laughter and sparkling eyes, he can’t wait to hold his black mudded sugarless cup of coffee and his dry pack of cigarettes which he accidentally left home, he can’t wait to lay down his neatly made bed after such a long day; hope and dismay now cover him, hope for better tomorrow and dismay of lost yesterday; spending all day looking for another job under heated sun, wasting every evening before 6 monitors and a computer searching for conspiracies and death around the world, no music no sound not even sounds of news anchors, only more fingers tapping an clicking out of beat like codes of warning from another world war.

He knows he didn’t stay their enough to grow numb, and he knows that he will never do such a thing, this thought invaded his mind as he placed his dark sunglasses in their cracked leather pack which spends more days under sun than he does, as he reached home he had his late meal after a long walk in April’s cold night, “no coffee for tonight” he said and made himself a cup of warm green tea smoked three cigarettes with it, and said to himself “I can make news instead of editing it” took a sip of that tea which became cold, “although I can adjust, I still have other options, I still have tomorrow and the days after” he wiped his stained glasses and thought “ I’ll give it one last shot and see how it ends, although it’s just like news no matter how much you edit they never end” then he fell asleep and so fell his pen while she was already asleep.

Day Off

Woke up to A minor chord, he was disoriented for a while, yet relaxed, he had a good sleep after he’s been hunted by insomnia for ages, no grinding teeth, no clinching fists, no stress at all, he answered the phone and first thing he heard was” good morning dear” flashbacks of last night rushed into his head, all smiles and laughter they had, all foolishness, randomness and chaos they made, and the smell of coconuts, all that filled him with temporary joy, just until the phone call was over, he got up drank some water, made himself a cup of black bitter coffee, lit a cigarette inhaled first smoke and sighed, thinking he has work, which meant he has to spend his evening setting to a desk counting death toll, waiting for some special deadly event, waiting for explosions, gunmen, violence and political decisions; waiting for breaking news, all that washed away his joy, left him in unease, until he took a look at the calendar to realize it’s Saturday, his day off, another day away from world and its distress, away from naked rude reality, away from disturbing images, disturbing facts and hypocritical acts, just another day where the world keeps spinning around, and nothing much in hand to do, only this day he’s evading what’s true.

Poetry

It was past midnight when he took a cab home, he offered the greedy driver a cigarette and he accepted it, although there was only two, he inhaled that toxin smoke as if it was life itself, sighed in despair and exhaustion, took another breath although his lungs hurt him, his blood pressure was high and he had a headache, yet he smoked that cigarette as if it was the cure of all his aches, he leaned back to that dirty seat took a glance at the empty street, a line of his poetry ran into his head “ I promise but a smile, and a portion of agony” he said that loud and the driver was shocked, then he gave him direction just to stop him from asking, as he reached home, he took out a lot of change to pay the fare, with a hunching back he ran upstairs knocked the door and walk to his room, first thing that came to his mind was “every person I wrote a poem has left” maybe that was it, maybe it wasn’t destiny, maybe it was his wrong emotions that led him to this end, the curse of all poets; poetry.

Fair War

One more cigarette, one more bloody cigarette to accompany last sips of black damned coffee, to wash down the sickness of the world, sickness which I spread like cancer, sickness that’s none of my concern, it’s not even mine, what have I done; six muted monitors and a night shift, more sorrow, more death, more piling s**t and a headset, hypnotizing guitars and dead drum beat, a musical funeral for those who have passed, again I’m sucked by the undertow, again I have sunk in the pool I’ve been trying to surface, all to make a better future all to make income, all to use wasted time, time of joy, all to spend more money on more pleasant time with her, for her, on her, but now she’s gone, and I am stuck in this place missing the sun.

As I count what I’ve lost due to mistrust I stopped searching for answers, I stopped asking why, I don’t even have time to deny, neither to accept, or dwell in my regret; that she is now gone, another chapter is left undone banished to the deepest of my mind, only to surf moments of silent whenever I have a cigarette break, but it’s not about her, not about the fact she’s gone, not about the mistrust nor cold reactions, it’s not about sanctions or borders that we made, it’s not about what I was willing to do, not about what I have or haven’t done, not about charades, all I know is truth prevails whenever glory fades.

Ends the cigarette, back to that back-aching seat back to confirm someone’s death, just another charade of power and treason, mistrust and cold reactions back to sanctions, borders and promises, back to what’s fair; war.