the cake is a lie

supposed to make you feel better, like coffee in your favorite mug, chocolates in a pretty box, ice-cream and peaches and sugar whipped cream. isn’t that what comfort eating is for? to ease your hunger (which can never be filled), to smother the sadness (which you cannot forget).

but what comfort can there be in your world of missed deadlines, of unwritten words, of unread texts? what comfort can there be in the frustration of knowing that you’re not doing enough, that time is whisking by and you are wasting the seconds, the minutes, the hours on what? on what? on things of no importance, or on things you would rather not do. yet you still do them, driven by what? the boredom that is your life, the pressure that is your creation, the responsibility that is the hymn you sway to. and sometimes, sometimes you think, after all this is what? nothing. but you go on and on and on because this is your life and this is what you know and this is what you believe, or what you tell yourself to believe because without it you have nothing to hold on to, because without it you are lost in the mire of questions like why bother? why care? what for? why me? and sometimes you wish you could just let go of it all–the telephones, the books, the keys, the papers, the questions and the answers–and just be. maybe sleep forever in a secluded little room where all the world is in your head and all the worries that besiege you now are but bubbles in an imaginary wind.

(you hack the cake with a fork and sip the coffee by the teaspoon and you don’t taste anything.)

and then you think of your uncle lying on a hospital bed under the glare of white light, like your other uncle, years ago. remember? no? you may have forgotten the sound of his laughter and the ring in his voice when he called you pet names, but surely you remember him? the one who died and left three children, one barely four years old. your uncle, the one who’s alive, he hasn’t got any children (but you’re like a daughter to him) and he’s not on the hospital bed (but he will be). you hack the cake with a fork and sip the coffee by the teaspoon and suddenly the calories are the least of your worries. tears (stealthy) fall with each sip, each bite, and you realize the cake is a lie, the cake is a stone heavy and tasteless in the pit of your stomach.

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