Dead end down jump street. Courting one’s past will only bring you sorrow. The landfill is full of past desires. The world in the present tense is but another fiction waiting. It is only in one’s memories that one stops time. Frozen moments repeatable as many times as your LP or your VHS, or your DVD, etc. will hold out. Hollywood kills ya! All those plastic faces known almost better than your own. Try to recall that first girl you kissed in school and you may come up with Rita Hayworth instead. Gilda is a tough one to forget. A half moon in the dead of night during a dry Winter. What you do when it has become the middle of the night and there is no possible alternative to the television left in your bed. This mechanism steals all your dreams. How fast the moon passes across the sky within this numb embrace? How eternal are those same old faces barely disguisedly the merest or ruses? You should have married one of them! Or maybe you already have? A dead end for dreams because you’ve already surrendered the best of them to some well-worn hackneyed plot.
Dead ends are your specialty now. The same old scenes. Items that you think that will somehow still have those same fingerprints of someone that is now forever lost to you. You find your gaze pointed in that same old direction. Sitting in the same chair now covered with the interval of dust. Everything now nothing. Something being considered permanently elusive now. Now classed with all topics passe. Little ballerinas in a box. The shades traverse back and forth without a footfall. An occasional laugh and possibly of the foreign notion approximating a good cry. What a fictional experience that is! Or possibly could be? But I doubt that those emotions are really mine anymore. They belong to a collective society of the nonexistent. No matter how long you may have stayed away they remain always with you. Displacing your own life’s history in the instant of a flash. The land where everything has a resolution without he possibility of a sequel leading to that ever elusive happy ending. The same one that has reliably been instituted to never show up. Something that, once again, is nothing.
The same something that one wants to forget. You never want to remember. That last breath that the two people that you knew best shared together but of course at different times. But then nighttime is so often the time for dying. Some die fast. But most due slow beforehand. A new appreciation for life and the inevitability of its lack. Another big, “So what!” It’s just a movie after all. Or just a dim shadow hiding behind one. The night encompasses one like a blanket without end. No limit to its undertow. You are the only one in that universe of characters. These cinema marionettes are not your friends. What will you do with your life when you are dead blind and deaf. The landfill will not take you. You are truly on your own at last. Plastic bags of plastic faces put to rest. But never one containing one of your own.