There is no loneliness like that of a beautiful sunny Sunday afternoon alone in memory of an ocean of good times that have come and gone before held within the happiness of the company of another. All those routine little trips to and fro with the folks. Those long country rides holding hands with that special someone who just told you once again how much they really love you. Now no longer that sort of ‘good time Charlie’. An emptiness surrounding one fully illuminated sublimated beneath the pressure of utter stillness. Being by one’s self and feeling totally abandoned by old events that have so long ago run their course. Eclipsing any hope of a bearable present without the cloak of the clinging past being dulled by trying to forget. That bitter instant when one realizes that they have been praying for the balm of a shadow over all they really loved about being alive. That indelible dream of what things must have been like way back then. And what they should have been like if you had been a more loving and less selfish as a person. That escalator of remorseful knowledge and impotent regret for the inescapable fact of being yourself. All those remaining songs and pictures from eras now extinct having one believing too occasionally that it is simply there as it has always been in the other room around the corner somewhere just behind you. But then, don’t bother to look or you’ll be certainly disappointed. Your heart heavy like some cheap gangster’s chain bound body, feet stuck in cement, below the bay. The world of life ongoing all around just above you. But no prayers left for anyone to utter. Only inadvertent mumbles trailing from your own lips. Mouthing words from those long familiar authors who gave birth to you but can no longer speak. What remains is no longer yours. But an outdated approximation of a future that might have been but that is now assuredly obsolete. Is it easier to close your eyes and enjoy the occasional appearance of intervening instants that lead back to the momentary crescendos of too often forgotten former hyperbole’s. Exposed in feelings inescapably mislaid betwixt too many other uncountable throwaway minutes of the prison bars of today?
Naught But Another Bitter Sunny Sunday