The Bloody Carousel

Somehow, I like the place. It has a strange sense of familiarity – is this what we call déjà vu?

I wonder why the inhabitants don’t seem to like me, though they look like old friends or acquaintances. I focus on the tilted architecture, which could easily be the ninth wonder of the world (the eighth is Compound Interest, if you remember a legend called Warren Buffet). It looks like they never applied for a place in the umpteen books of records.

Yes, it is the structure that speaks to me, not the inhabitants.

“Prepare yourself for the final judgement. All the people you have loved or hated or hurt are here.”

“But why don’t they speak to me?”

“They are busy planning their future. You might find a place in it – whatever and wherever it is.” There is a strange sense of foreboding in the voice.

“Me?”

“Yes, it’s time for all settlements. We have the records here. See that guy sitting behind the large book.”

A sense of doom pervades, as I think back. The dark coffin, the suit I wore, a rosary in my folded hands, the priest reading something, lots of people looking polite and quiet, but unconcerned…..

Oh, my God! I’m not alive any more. It’s time for another life – yet again, once more on the giant wheel where I tend to lose balance.

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