That point has been reached when it is hard to recall with any immediacy those who once lived here in this apartment. Death and time seem to contradict with each other. It was all very nice and symbolic if it could be written in old German text. A runner along the wall’s tip top making right angles in the curious fashion of a ticker tape marquee. It was time. Time to move on. One can only hang around waiting for the end for so long. The chase for an errant hubcap convinced him of that. One could barely make a trot experiencing a numb pain throughout his entire upper torso centering around a lack of lung power. Lurking below the surface of his complacency was the truth. The end was coming in one fashion or another.
That bar three blocks north and the occasional acquaintances made there offered an opportunity to reconstruct the synapses of times past. Names of restaurants that were way stations of daily activity in the pursuit of a career. The more details unearthed bringing an awareness of just how common the experience of life had become. A useful language to comfort the desire to connect. Yet a metronome that suggested that the tempo of life was dramatically reduced from what it had formerly been. That rail car of expectation containing so many young man potentials still unopened now obviously gone bad from neglect. The perpetual worship of one’s own lost youth a passing fancy not worth the time of day.
The constant loss of everyday regard in the thoughts of others left one a ghost. The entity familiar with the surrounding landscape from daily padding about it’s lanes. But bereft of friendly faces to call be name. The faces growing younger and younger and more casually arrogant to the affront of someone such as he as old and persistent as he was. It was a strange feeling to be placed at a distance from the larger daily existence behind this metaphoric sheet of glass. The dream persisted of following up on the other extreme of taking to the road and dropping all pretense of any connection with anything but the obvious fact of his age. The passing landscape of some far Western wilderness ever coming to mind. Destiny or simply some desperate stab at an inadvertent quick self-destruction? The old plowed under in favor of the new. A difficulty of plumbing the bottom depths of his own self-description as of late.
The need to self-motivate and will one’s self forward flagging. An impossible effort of spent will and blunted animal instincts. The imperative for physical survival waning. The thought of a misguided marriage ceremony with such pomp and circumstance come to naught some twenty seven years past reminds how empty and futile a solitary life can end up being. “I am a young man“, a stupid persistent silent chant that still occasionally echoes within. The promise of tomorrow a necessary invocation to proven one from dropping dead out of a lifetime of unsatisfied frustrations. “You who have had the benefit of everything!“, the mind races, “Have come down in the end to naught!“. The woman in the dream was like a cypher on a white page stretched out between the space afforded by to stylish markings of the pen. One of a long line that stretched forth the possibility of another unspecified one. A horizon ahead barren of any hope that would extend beyond the collection of old out of date memory strewn collections of useful cumbersome items. Near to the end of one’s rope. Only one hand upon it hanging loose, slipping.
Held up from advancing further in fearlessly addressing the big questions in life by a persistent juvenile fantasy of being universally liked by all and receiving special accord joyfully once again as the celestial infant. The ego is a load stone that ever outweighs its moribund proportions. This is a work world where all the noble souls are silent with ground down noses. The grind never questioned beyond a usual morning grumbling. The needless sacrifice of all he years of one’s life, your ticket for entry in the low ceiling hall of lumpen Vahalla. Whatever vainglorious dreams that persist must be ushered to the farthest most remote regions of these hallways far out of conventional view. Insanity defined as daring to rise above your station in this otherwise lackluster existence. The wish that everyone that became disappointed with you that you are disappointed with for not bothering to any longer give a damn about one! Let those goddamn rockets fly skywards! Tread your path, eyes front, keeping your head down. The truth about the human condition is that most people’s lives turn out to be tragedies of missed opportunities and unforeseen dead ends. There is plenty of company out there in the pitch black darkness of solitude. Shades in Hades no longer given the opportunity to speak. Star shells of memories of kinder times! This was the worst part! The reason that all items connected with the bygone past were left to gather dust rather than be taken up anew. Too many memories almost as immediate as the long lost presence of those people now long put to rest. Damn these holidays!