His name is Stan, short for Stanley. Poor angler did not have a clue that evil eyes were aiming for him.
He never bothered to understand the implications of the disagreements he might have with his night ghosts.
They were terrible on him. They would wake him up first thing after he had just shut his eyes and demand that not only, he opens his eyes but also arrange a seat, sit down and converse to them.
When he did not listen to them, they would not react or say anything. All they would then do is encourage mutiny of the other souls, the ones that even the worst of them could not control.
Stan had a big issue at hand there.
damn if you do, damn if you do not type of thing.
One night they came early, they were not there for conquering. They were seeing closure. They were in a hurry. Their silhouettes were distinguishable from normal shadowy thickness, the cloud forming appearance.
But they caught Stan in a bad mood.
He was not ready to be forgiven. He wanted to dedicate it all. Everything, even if it means the process of annihilation would begin earlier for him, with the wielding sword, the one that appears like a ghost on his shadow, falling on his head.
He did not care.
He wanted the fight, and they did not want one. They wanted closure damn it.
He knew. Subconsciously he knew this was going to be his moment. That decisive moment seeking, finding an inner breakthrough onto some unknown ghosts was a good policy.
It made him feel good, even great.
All the problems of the world began to slowly disappear away from Stan.
They picked the wrong fight, and they wanted closure. Closure Stan was not going to give away.
He would animate a fight on the ring, and they would sit back after realising that he has lost the plot, they would sit back and just laugh their heads off.
For a number of nights, Stan was the angler, and the warmonger squad would just sit back and laugh, after they stir the shit up.
But Stan as ever, the innocent fellow whose only crime was that he happened to be living with his Mum at the adult age of thirty-seven, did not expect that the warmongers squad were authentic enough when it comes to them being bull pit of the ages. The storm gatherers of his mind.
His realisation came on late because he had not had the stamina of prevaricating about it. When it came it came and that was it. There was nothing else he could do.
Stamina comes from something, some kind of motivation, a subconscious way of managing the information that you have but never knew if you had it or that you will ever scratch its surface of it.
Stan the stamina man discovers the moment when he is being played. He discovers that this whole shite process is nothing more than a juxtaposition between his mother telling him every day the routine stuff, like get out and get a fricking job, or clean the toilets and hygiene the room.
Stan the stamina man knows that his mind has gone well past the Rubicon of transcending peace and that now it is time to deliver.
He cannot deliver a job for his mother,
he cannot feel the productive adult that he is supposed to be,
he cannot be the person who is always seeking the thrill to be indifferent to the rest of the day and the world around him.
He allowed fairies of chaos engulf his life and for that he feels that he must make them pay the price.
What is the price though? Is this something he has not thought about it though or is this something that he needs to endorse his own illusion though, is this the momentum of stale impatience though!!!
He cannot set a price because he is well too fragile to accept a real fact.
The fact that in the bosom of the overall surroundings, he is well below it, does not bother him that much.
He must play the game.
He does not know how to play the game.
He can about think of something new. Like a distraction technique to keep his mind away from the nurturing clouds.
He then adjusts his seating position in his bed and stares straight at the door.
His mother walks in and starts giving him the usual pistoling of the words.
He shuts his eyes and for the first time he sees two parallel realities; in one side of the mind ghost is the warmongers squad screaming and shouting and being violent and in the other is his mother shouting and yelling.
He opens his eyes and his Mum's face is distorted.
A distortion that he has been dreaming for an exceedingly long time.
So cruel for a distortion that he hates himself for being able to imagine such things.
She then stops. It is the heart - he tells himself.
Let us hope is that.
She stops and touches her chest with her right hand. She is not seeking help yet. She becomes breathless and then she gets red in her face.
Stan's eyes are half opened but staring straight into the abyss of his mother's agony.
He sees black but with red stripes all over his vision of his mother as a sainted witch.
Warmongers recede away from the mind ghost one.
His mother struggles to breathe. She then extends her hand toward him, now even more breathless than a second or so ago.
He pretends he cannot see her.
He slowly shuts his eyes and fades onto his mind seeking the sheltering of the unknown.
Dark becomes quickly his skull's entrapment.
He opens his eyes when it suited his vengeful feelings.
When he stands up, on his feet, he does not want to imagine anything else apart from the playing with the warmongers. The heart throbbing lot who have now disappeared and are not interested on his affairs anymore.
Mother, milk, please - he calls. On top of her body seeking peace.
Stan the stamina man had the guts to imagine.
He had the guts to end up walking by himself and reach the freshness and coldness of the bottled milk in the fridge, drink some of it and feel relieved that he had abandoned the warmongers zone and now is free.
He thinks!
But he feels it though.
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