The Suffering of Man and His Blanket

Chapter II.

Sitting up in bed, Man looked at the bag of pain in front of his eyes.

Pain had never been so colorful and joyful. It had never smelled like Christmas. And it had most definitely never been forced down his throat, by his own beliefs.

Until then, pain had been just very factual and clear: a headache after a night of partying, a tummyache after a long day without eating.

This time, pain was staring at him in his face, nearly alive and talking:

Ha-ha, I win. I win with my bitterness and sourness and with the cheating appearance of my skin.

Man looked at the bag of pain in front of his eyes once again. Did it really talk? Was this the real life?

Was this just fantasy?

Was he caught in a landslide?

With no escape from reality?

The bag of pain snickered.

If you don’t take one, you lose the game.

Man drew his blanket a little closer. Tears were slowly welling up in his eyes.

He reached out for the bag and took out a small, orange fruit.

It’s so sour, Woman, it’s so sour it hurts, he said nearly crying, but knowing he had beaten pain for one more dinner.

Three more nights of this.