Roberto Roja is the author of Filth & Romance, published by Laughing Fire Press.
Hot days seem to run into the cool nights like two bulls, with no red cape, cojones, swagger, or matador provoking either beast. As I sit on the balcony after banging my youth away like a depraved alley cat roaming the back streets for some strange ass each night, thinking about the one I should be with, the one that got away, another hot blonde lays naked inside across the bed drinking the good old whisky. While she waits for my return, I take a few swigs myself, inhale the cigarette smoke out into the night, and look up at the red stained clouds looming above, a vision of burgundy piss and sin smeared upon the fluffy vapours by the unseen and unworshiped gods who ride upon chariots of no glory.
“What the fuck are you doing out there baby?” she screams out.
“Just taking in the magic,” I reply.
“Hurry up and come back to bed.”
While the blonde siren rolls around on the cradle of filth, the sheets stained from our bodily fluids, I inhale all the misery of the world into my being. The thoughts, the words, come and go, go and come, a bohemian dream. I keep the stories nestled inside until she is gone, riding her romance upon another wave to the arms of another man. Then after her departure I sit inside a small room alone at my desk, without her or all the ones who have come before her. The blank page awaits my words and the thoughts that ease out of my being. That’s the thing about the blank page: it never rushes you, provokes you, fucks with you, yells, screams, or whines at you. The madness comes only from the silence, with nobody to throw or aim your energy towards.
This is the life of a writer or artist. The victory never comes and when it does, it’s too late for you to appreciate the sweet taste of something that for once in your life is going right. The schools, teachers, the media, and movies propagate the idea that one can have big dreams and become whatever they want you to become, while millions starve on every street corner around the globe. It is only when you leave the comfort zone and sail into the darkness of the big bad world that you realise the dreams and hopes they promoted are fabrications of an idea to keep you motivated enough to get up out of bed in the morning and go to work so the wheels of the factories, Wall Street, banks, and corporations keep on turning while you slave away doing the nine till five, hoping for that day where they will discover you and your work so you can live out the rest of your days sipping mojitos in Spain with famous celebrities or riding down the boulevard of Venice Beach in a black Ferrari.
In the end, all that is left is the stain of love gone sour, the sweetness of her lips, heart, soul, and energy gone forever, blowing in the wind for the next generation of swine to devour. Your song, your poem, your masterpiece will never be heard, and there it will rest inside your being and her being for eternity, becoming one, and finally you realise that life is not about success, money, business, fame, or fortune. This realisation of having her close to you one last time and embracing every inch of her essence will hit you like ten tigers leaping out in the dead of night while you sleep, tearing apart every inch of your existence. And there you will be left alone forever, writing, painting, or sketching about the one that got away. Your flame. Your fire. Your reason for being born into this madness and chaos.
What else is there? Nothing. Nothing but the sound of the ice clanging against the edges of your scotch glass. And as you devour every last drop, the bulls, nights, swagger, and days continue to clash until you find each other again and spiral back into the never-ending pit of madness.