I walk Orson several times a day. His afternoon walk happens when I get home from work.
Today I didn’t change my clothes. I was wearing a black dress shirt and faded black jeans. I have black hair, and recently regrew my 90’s goatee which, for the 21st century, sports some gray. My skin is pale and my eyes are sunken from the last two or three years of sheer hell. I’ve lost lots of weight and my clothes (I haven’t bought any new ones in three years) all hang on me.
That was how I looked.
As I was walking Orson by the park, an older woman parked her car and got out. As she passed me, she smiled and said, “Dark things have purpose.” Then she walked on.
I’m not making that up. That’s what she said.
Dark things have purpose.
Usually, the purpose of dark things is to destroy or be destroyed. Usually, the purpose of dark things is to make the bright things look better, and justify what bright things are and do.
I live in the land of bright things. Beautiful things. I’ve always been aware I wasn’t part of them. I’ve always been aware that Hollywood is about youth and power and sex and beauty and money, and I’m not permitted in any of those parties, not anymore. If you don’t have one or more of those things, you are not welcome.
I’m a dark thing. The bright things should get down on their knees and thank their gods that there are dark things like me to justify their existence.
Then Orson pooped out a dark thing of his own, and since there was a cop nearby, I made sure I picked it up. City ordinance.
Dark things have a purpose.