Which is better? To be universally recognized or remain completely anonymous? The new form of triumphal surrender as therapy to your impossibilities. It is all too easy to fall into the stereotype, or embody it from the start. Playing card parliamentary rules when you plot to ask someone a pointed question. Sometimes it would be wise to have prepared your own answer lest you be found wanting when the same question is turned around on you. All the old war heroes can be lined up before the cameras like trophies. They just have to show up to collect. In the best sense of same, women are there to be admired. What is fairness after all but simply a fabricated mental impression, yet not a truth, and never an inflexible standard?
Long ago the will to love was lost. Why? How much dirt on a grave does there need to be to make one think it has never been anywhere to begin with? A lack of empathy in daily life, just a simple form anesthesia. When you walk alone you can never have a peaceful moment again. You can describe the action and let your mental audience comment. You can describe the setting and provide the tone of the atmosphere to let other consciousnesses construct a narrative. You can recite the primary character’s inner thoughts verbatim and then allow the impression to come to the most likely conclusion, come what may. Some people just want another to sit silently there beside them so as to get a physical sense of security. Some people don’t what to change a single aspect of their own existences and are constantly plotting on how to resist the same. Other cling to their sanity by swimming upstream in the swift current of other people’s emotions as they overwhelm their own.
A dim bleary eyed besotted face rises from the drool pond of the table, “It’s Hickey!” “He’s arrived!” “Finally!”, “The Iceman Cometh!”
The popular media’s job is to dispel human loneliness with the daily illusion of an engaging conversation. Any victim is always eventually condemned for the fact of their disease or miscalculation leading to their eventual failure. Especially if they have risen too high and done too well. Two guys get waylaid on a schooner then share their adventures high in the rigging drunk as skunks. Most men have heroes generally in professional sports. Careers that they follow through the entire course of their own lives. The wilderness of night was thus consumed with such abstract mental wanderings.
It had been a bad night of constant drifting off and sudden waking. His left arm ached and he had to constantly jockey his position to suit the restlessness that its relentless discomfort demanded. Those sudden sharp shooting pains beneath the ribs. It seemed that a sinkhole had appeared in the middle of his chest. The waters of life did not seem to penetrate it. But the beer and the tequila did like a sharp arrow. He was too old now for frivolous bar stool adventures. The sunlight of morning seemed extra bright and demanding that he open his eyes to it. The sweat stained bed sheets clung tightly like stucco upon him. He rose checking the stagger to the bathroom marking if its source was the previous night’s drink or the inefficiency of his heart’s pumping. The steamy shower seemed to wash away much wreckage. The mirror being all too honest confirming yet again that not much was left of his sense of male vanity. The descent into old age had not been kind. All to the disappointment of youthful desires that refused to be quenched. His head slowly nodded in sympathetic agreement that there was nothing extraordinary or unfair in this. But extremely disappointing as he had disappointed himself by not taking better care having too quickly given in to well-worn self destructive habits. His mind refused to leave its endless wanderings in the flowery fields of youth.
Sylphs, fairies and ghostly mental images of all the women that he had once been attracted to in those bygone rituals of mating. Ceremonies that were no longer possible for him save to idly ponder in private. He closed the towel and then turned to the shapeless pile of his raiment’s discarded in a rumple just outside the bathroom door. A worn second skin of threadbare futilities. The renewal and replacement of each garment noted on a mental list to one day renew. A second skin to be renewed by in some small but significant way. His attentions diverted back to a longstanding mystery cloaking his mind’s eye to the constant sight of others. The incomprehensible experience of his arms encircling a young maiden as he had in decades past. A young woman’s body unwrapped and fully revealed in all its wonder a sight perpetually eternal in his thoughts. How many like it had he held in close embrace in eons past? Tried to understand, not with his mind, but with the antenna of his soul? Failed miserably with each to learn its secrets as to the reason for its being. His hands upon the small of a back delicately bowing it like a cello with restless fingertips. Each attempt to capture it defeated by the flash of an eye. Something ethereal int he descent of fingertips incrementally tracing the flatness of a hip declining inevitably into the curve of an inner thigh. Taut strings rubbed and plucked.
Life since had become laundered of such thoughts. He had his pile of well spent rags that served as snake skin remnants of his former self. The pursuit of youthful passions lost and now impossible. Absurd to consider! The waking dreams of old movies affording a slip from current dignity in the propriety observed in the conduct of one’s self. The world of now was filled with old compromises. Quick bargains made forgoing something considered so regular long ago but now cemented tightly shut and impenetrable. Pacts made in silence with unspecified entities that asked for nothing in specific but one knew were keeping a grim vigil. The inevitability of one’s genes as demonstrated by now long lost forebears offering only the conclusion of mortality. Perhaps sooner and not later? There in the street by a table in the imminence of the sun strung out like a line of beetles. Slow careful promenades of ancient brittle bones and arthritic joints supporting wrinkled skin and sagging bellies. all melting slowing and inevitably like candle wax left unattended in the wee hours of sleep. One awakening in the morning with a start to the spectacle of it’s decay. That moribund procession dirge-like slowly into the oblivion of the grave.