What a time to be alive! A time when few if any really have any firm grip on the true nature of their own reality. So many look for a place of safety to harbor there lives but so often find a barrier of mischief making that precludes finding one. The search for even one’s own truth too heavily veiled in multiple meanings like backstops upon a theater stage. A false continuum of regularity that suggests a universal lie that there is a consensus. The hawk to the squirrel, the wolf to the hen, the dragon to the knight. Predator and prey fighting in what is loosely deemed the imagination. The real contest occurring outside what is considered rational but is so much more real than what is ascribed as real itself. Run and hide from it if you will! Or stand and fight and be torn asunder only to awaken into its world once again the next night to service this same choice afresh. Dark alleys and empty corridors with the presence of something angry and raging ever near.
People give up on you after a while. Nothing ever resolved. It’s the same old story where nothing new ever happens! He was in a terrible funk. His mood over the last few days as downcast as the unseasonably cold weather outside. The facts despoiling his fantasy of setting his life aright in light of the old way he was accustomed to having gone awry. His station in society having fallen through the roof of the newly burned French cathedral. The enemy was at his gates and his slings were out of commission and he was all out of arrows. His residence now fallen into the abyss within the belly of Sheol. If anyone needed a definition of Hell then they need not look any further. What other narrative would do I need to lay across my own? Self-image and self destruction. To draw upon the past there has to be a mutually respected past tense to draw upon. Destroy one’s public persona and they are left with overwhelming actions to persuade others. Or conversely to recede into ineffective anonymous invisible non-entities. The second option being the most chosen in these current times. The threat of those scrubbing bubbles of administrative social detergent if they catch on to the former threatening to apply overwhelming force to negate it. The art of survival in our Orwellian age is not taking either scenario too much to heart.
The man on the coach of the public transport appearing out of place. Everything about him being a paper doll mismatch of items that might have been claimed by three separate different types of characters. A brand new business suit a size or so too large. The pants cuffs of the same exposing old over-worn zippered ankle boots. A brown leather rucksack the strap of which being a worn bandoleer across the chest compressing the blue woolen tie so hard as to protrude like a second tongue from above the waistcoat. Nerdy dark plastic frame eyeglasses upon a head that looked like a bloodless slab of fat enriched beef. The entity within quite obviously maintaining an unsure stance stretched across several worlds each of which did not fully accept him.
This funny edgy morning of serial disappointments in doubtful alternate cuisines and diverted possibilities pointing one towards the worst of circumstances. The subtlety of the underbelly exposed to the randomness of subsidiary behaviors of unfamiliar strangers. The human form losing its panache turning to a nondescript lumpy approximations of collective crowd consciousness. The U.K. lad at the next tabled behind the bulk of his girlfriend in-between looking lizard-like above the plate just below his chin. Busily bending those hometown Midland’s vowels to an extreme. This host buildings architecture enclosing us speaking silent volumes of so many immediately identifiable familiar significations enjoyed by former generations that once ruled long past. Nothing like those old days of, “Pardon Me!” and “Excuse Me!“, when you can knock over some arthritic old fellow’s stick and not just obliviously pass by. A certain degree of inherent ability in unconsciously prognosticating future events by drawn imagery. Events and trends in black and white on the pages of one’s own personal iconography. Can one be happy in the company of one of these equality of outcome possessed sock puppets? Those worn down fellow creatures that have been cast into fatal mediocrity of continuously obsessive consensus in all things long before approach of adulthood. Each in possession of an equivalently important personal drama no better or worse than any other! Rote everyday survival triumphing over the possibility of engaging in chaotic romance. True love deposed to the status of an occasional hitchhiker relegated to an all too short ride in one’s back seat. Their youthful follies transformed incrementally into twisted caricatures barely resembling their former physical presence in youth. That “Once and Future Kingdom”, that they were to inherit now distant and too far beyond reach having been long ago lodged firmly in stone like Arthur’s sword within the firmament of what they never could be in the first place.
Eyesight getting ever worse and working towards an imminent rendezvous with legally blind. Passing youthful feminine arrogance showing it’s absence of petticoats in defiance of everything that it has been taught but has yet to begin to comprehend. Too apparently with one’s own in a room populated mainly by prosperous malade’s. No time for self pity, just learn to adapt! That characteristic open bowed leg positioning of a lifelong cellist waiting like an alligator’s jaws for an audience to entrap. Her sex open but not to repel! Cataracts covering over morbid self perception. The low spark of high heeled clip clop foreign femmes. Others in pantomime of, “When the body’s dimensions gets rowdy the clothes draped upon it look dowdy!” Once more the silent time worn chant of, “This is the point in life where the sum total of my entire existence has led me to!” That thought interposed with an equally persuasive recycling rendition of that old Vicki Carr song, “Is that all there is?” My patent response to the diminishing indifference of others as they pass being to demonstrably laugh at them. Perhaps then to put both hands to the cheeks of may face and violently rub them exclaiming “Two Weeks!” repetitively like that large female character in Total Recall?
A step ahead of human instinct. Those culturally adept swiftly wending their way to the last of available seating past the walking wounded of the aged. A couple make their long ellipse past the center of my solar orbit to land beside me. The latest spawn of the land of Germanicus bred in the spirit of Arminius translates the inscription upon the wall for his own Asian paramour. “Deutsche uber alles macht muss ordung sein haben!” “Get your griddle cakes!“, an internal mental voice rings out. There still are hunchbacks within this cathedral crowd. “Les pobre salo!” Coming closer from a distance, “An vieux homme ancien avec bard gris e une valise d’bombe!” “Il arrive!”
A bowed ennui! No doubt derived from the silent era of flickering moving pictures. A corner on the personal narrative that it recalls but the details of which in a personal sense that otherwise cannot be but barely remembered. The subsequent selections hearkening to the same silver nitrate ghostly world long expired. That brief in-between era of inferred drama by the collective post-war humanity frozen overhead in patterns of sparkling terrazzo. All those enraptured within that short seemingly bulletproof sojourn of physical beauty unaware of the quicksand of old age waiting just ahead. The low vibration of the cello summoning birds just outside the windows of this hall. The sad exclamation of my own mother just after my father died rising to my lips from nowhere that she will never be held in anyone’s arms ever again. One cough after another suddenly breaking the mood. Those susceptible to unconscious suggestion fall in line like dominoes. The high theater of personal existentialism by Ravel buttressed against the sonorous emotional abandon of Debussy. Hallowed notes and frenetic tempos. Perhaps it is true that one comes to have no other emotionally charged existence outside this hall from week to week every Wednesday? The man with the mystery of the satchel abruptly leaves his seat still carrying it. The absurdity of outrageous yips and yaps of respiratory distress breaks out yet again. The mood is once again despoiled. One can imagine the insoluble issues to be encountered in playing this music in the time of a spreading epidemic?
Hermetic could be the proper term from a subset of popular terminology to describe the nature of contemporary individual existence. Whatever that was? How could one make proper judgements in a world they no longer traveled within? The world that he knew was a silent place bereft for the most part of all sounds of others save for occasional random intrusions. Had he been a prisoner incarcerated he might have had more contact on a regular basis. Existence tightly moderated in a world of extremes. The boundary between the vast distances that were inferred a ‘touch and go‘ no man’s land where one was careful not to stray too far in either direction. The old days where one was unbounded as a traveler now gone along with the blissful confidence of youthful ignorance. The notion of a hope of regaining the same lay impatiently behind tightly shut eyelids waiting impatiently for another dawning.
The face blankly staring forth into itself. Emotionless, it claimed no ownership beyond that of a possible one-time passing acquaintance. A worn block of wood extent as a fragment of what had once been a beam that had by some random chance of fate made its way from the waters edge to this place. The home of our species his mind instantly quipped having been the sea. This thought shifted along with its inconsequential memory of the morning before as he turned his head and propelled himself to a sitting position on the edge of his cot with his arms. The mental comfort of his own things in surround within the small bed chamber still remained despite the peripheral sentiment of angst that worried his gut. “Strange?“, he thought. Strange how the stomach seemed the final source of all existential concerns. So odd to that civilized society would freely provided those that it had formally condemned with a last meal of their choosing. Albeit within the confines of the same level of mediocrity that the institution that held them would generally provide. To all others without, the responsibility for their last meals was totally on them!
Did his mind dare to wonder what lay beyond same anymore? Life would struggle on from this point for a number of hours until the inverse would bring the passing of all natural light. Such was the cycle what was for him in particular simply the random turn of a page in some old discarded phone book. The furthest one might hope for was outside the windows this morning with the coming of a dawn rising behind the somber low gray curtain of clouds that draped the edge of the horizon. There had once been singular motivations that had affected him past the point of obsession causing him to risk all so many times. That need for satiating an impulse to stalk favor with the other sex according to the current acceptable precepts of the day, presumably to mate, also a fleeting memory. The episodes having so often extended into futile expeditions that cost much in terms of time and emotions but yielded little in terms of frivolity. Like an wounded animal stung too many times from challenging an electric fence his desires had cooled to the point of freezing. One dare not play the dreamer in this world of man as his one and only God! Dare on see one’s own reflection of actual existence as it really was?
The illumination come of the approach of late afternoon lighting the inside of the personal museum where once familiar others tread, sat, contemplated and called home. A languid static long lasting moment that quietly whispers to one that they might have simply left the room in the brief span of an instant past rather than a decade or more past their deaths. Time shown up by the impression of their persistent lingering presences. One wonders if they every really left playing the music that they knew in their most promising era now unimaginable lost in ancient history. Outside the imminent departure of the Sun is cast by the length of building shadows reaching slowly across sidewalks and streets. Catching the moment between one’s eyebrows straight center through to that weak spot in one’s chest where armor plate imperfectly protects. Putting on the regular raiment’s over worn and frayed but indulging in the realization that different garbs assumed affect one accordingly to the stature they suggest.
Sparky was the neighborhood detective. He seemed to live at this latter point in his solitary existence for recording the events around him. Passing strangers, the weather, the seasonal flight of birds, the unexpected traverse of small animals, no matter what it was it all ended upon in his small pocket sized journal. What he hoped to do with all these observations was anybody’s guess? Though he, like many, was in possession of modern computer devices there was no evidence that these entries were making it farther than the barely legible cursive that wandering quickly all over the horizontal guidelines of each page. Certainly to someone taking this in from afar it seemed an odd practice arousing suspicions that there was more to Sparky than met the eye!
It was an extraordinarily beautiful blue morning sky with the Sun set up high out of reach providing a steady supply of life affirming encouragement. Something foreign as of late to what had otherwise been expected as another episode in month long chapters of a freezing cold gloomy gray Winter’s end. He walked down the sidewalk at a slow pace enjoying the unaccustomed temperature almost as if he was drinking it in with his entire physical form. The large parking lot of his initial destination several blocks away partially filling up. The contents of its franchise coffee house offering a random selection of what one might have expected as a random sample taken from the local population. Third generation Italian being the hub around which this otherwise ethnically American suburb was built. Most lining up before the cash register simply passing through. Some others sitting for a span of a few minutes in brief respite arranging the contents of a bag or purse before heading back on their way to serve out the balance of the day at their own weekly nine to five. Sparky scribbled away at his self-appointed task as their chronicler. He sat at a far two-spot, with the companion in the awkward shape of his bulky winter coat . A disembodied entity that hunched comfortably inert just opposite upon the chair low and out of the way of his line of sight. His field of view offering many candidates for his ballpoint pen to encounter, epitomize, or maybe even revile.
No doubt his own figure garnered some attention. A middle-aged gentleman seeming far past the temptations of any youthful folly beyond the incongruity of bearing such a silly nickname. His android physique heavy and inert. The beady brown eyes pensive below a tall slightly balding pate that anchored all as part of an unwavering studious expression. Busily engaged ceaselessly scribbling to single out certain key eclectic looking members from the ebb and flow of the randomness of the morning crowd. Taking notes that if the subject of each might be given the privilege of viewing same might comment that they ran all over the place in terms of being topical, cerebral and occasionally something indefinably otherwise. This ‘otherwise’ being a free form impressionist exponent of crazy quilt literary prose. Something transposed from the rawness of the author’s random feelings about these characters that synthesized from emotions sparked from his own deep unfathomable register within.
After forty-five minutes of being at coffee his restless desire to soak up the wonder of the brilliant day outside had led him to exist to spontaneously take up an impromptu journey. This jaunt taking the form of a long leisurely meandering walk down the endless rows of empty suburban houses. Plunging passed a parking lane and into the suburban brick forest he trod forth, swinging his gaze to and fro, quickly eying each structure that he walked past. All the while, refining his impressions to focus on some unique aspect of each one of them. His lone figure was found to abruptly stop within this wilderness from time to time, unloading a mental store into several lines cribbed furiously into that same tiny black book set hard upon the wavering pedestal of his left palm. Those still at home residing behind the picture windows might view him from afar, curiously wondering at the starting and stopping on the sidewalk. From afar appearing like a street character in his rumpled bulky blue winter coat, black watch cap and overly well-worn frayed cuff black jeans. A lone presence might have presented a challenging conundrum as to what this unexpected fellow’s actual purpose might truly be. The infrequent practice of periodically stopping to submit information that register lending an impression of a contractor fulfilling some indeterminate official task that might explain this uncustomary stranger’s immediate presence or inexplicable actions. Or just as possibly create a suspicion in the minds of other more watchful possibly launching cynical opinions as to what this stranger’s recorded information might be used for at some later date. Something more nefarious in purpose that might spark a home invasion or theft?
On he trammeled absent-mindlessly for several blocks further North. His actions consistently oblivious of any possible response as he hobbled around the corner. A brand new black SUV parked further ahead on the wrong side of the street. Nothing visibly stirring within the virtually opaque tinted glass. Sparky continued on amidst a growing chill that the only two obvious things that were now out of place in the apparently sleepy neighborhood was the waiting vehicle and himself. No subsequent hint of movement suggesting that whoever was within this tin metal sphinx was still possibly uninterested in him. His gray hair and his continued steady gait that seemed unconscious to this quiescent predator he was slowly passing was allowing him safe transit without any further scrutiny. His own fight or flight impulse to suddenly vary his behavior now suppressed in favor of simply continuing what seemed like external indifference. Fate had for his own sake allowed him to continue on down the next block unmolested in the same fashion as before. One he went as before with a growing new awareness of the question of the identity of each soft rising whoosh of a random car approaching from behind down the block now eliciting a distinct sense of slight paranoia. Would that previous predator suddenly pull up to a stop beside him and order him to halt with unspecified intentions? A new unexpected lesson congealing in the fact of changing times heavy upon his mind. These random starting’s and stopping’s of his anonymous mentally errant figure seemingly absorbed in their own silent postulating about an internal world were no longer considered by current society as being so innocent. Each subsequent automotive passing resulting in a false positive. He went on scribbling in a small journal but his ardor for focusing on his own muse now subsequently thrown off.
“I’ve bored myself stiff!“, as the saying goes. No sense of delicacy of smell to detect anything beyond less than subtle odors. The illusion has become past tense and it leaves me naked to the facts. A bag of wind in a confined place. No seams to exploit to find an escape with. Pronouncement after pronouncement, mostly concentrating some new form of loss. Should I settle into mediocrity? Descend into some quiet space? This prospect of endless mediocrity is killing me!
The world has left me! And I am leaving it. The dubious head space of the virtual mechanical beast shown up for the mortal tool that it has become. A massive sorting device that simply categorizes taste and curiosities. One’s desires too easily deflate by satiation of an animal need to brush up against one’s own. Even if the bump is merely in the mind and not in the higher reality of physical practice. Fate has played its hand too early and too long ago. I see clearly the dilemma that I am enveloped within.
All this talk is far removed from the entity dwelling within. Superficial and superfluous to the daily exterior concerns of the withdrawals of lofty intent to favor the mundane. The convenience of memory interceding like some cavalry troop to defeat commitment. Society seemingly demanding the referential over the innovative. A crushing series of never ending blows to the ego of the individual who would dare Promethium tasks. Potential conversation driven down to the daily talk of the number of shekels to be had. The speaker being the one who is being had. Life beyond can never be measured out in bits and pieces.
I am a carnivore for the facts.
Suddenly! I woke up old. The mirror showing a face defined by creases and wrinkles bemoaning someone unrecognizable past youth. Lost in a sea of old! Old men and old woman from a generation grown old to replace their no longer extent fathers and mothers. Secret conversations held beneath a sheltering cranium existing betwixt the past and a quickly fragmenting present. Between dreaming and a persistent waking material reality. The persistent fragment of all things no longer in force but in a quickly fading state of inevitable dissolution. No type of clown more insufferable than that of an old clown. The pretense of continued youth come to conclusion. A face that I can finally trust to confirm the worst! A fear of being demoted to final irredeemable empty insignificance.
Scaffolds strung on wires hundreds feet in the air of the bare steel columns of a monstrous life sucking skyscraper. Big ungainly things overlarge far beyond the scale of simple humanity challenging the sky like a thousand ghost-like children of the lingering hubris of an ancient Enoch worldwide. Insubstantial support, even for the young! So far to fall back down into the abyss of an earthly folly. So futile to hang on and hope to await rescue which can never come soon enough if at all. Marooned and waylaid in lofty thin air. Abandoned by foolish missteps of dreaming the continuation of an world world and papering it across something new. Then bemoaning this fate to ears that no longer exist! How to be reborn in a few brief seconds struggling arm and leg into the thin empty air?
The absurdity of planning ones demise so as to be in charge of making it happen on command as opposed to an eventually ensuing unexpected happenstance. A self-appointed Archon preserving in his mind the fallacy of the existence of all things past. “Buy my entire life for cash!” And I will simply walk out with only the clothes on my back and valise full of the money. Let the purchaser play the game of discovering the myriad of details that are embodied within. I cannot come to any lasting sense of resolution with them!
The forensic report stated that the subject had fallen off the superstructure of the Remington Center complex at approximately 2:45 AM and had landed upon the street immediately below. His body shattered by a fall of some three hundred feet most apparently landing head first leaving his skull and neck completely disintegrated upon the pavement and killing him instantly.
Not as bad as some, but so much less than others. That’s how the goof described himself. Extraordinary in a willingness to ask and then follow up with one’s feet, he found himself fully encapsulated in a maze created from his own wanderings. Something that while not being an inescapable prison still remained a barrier to a measure of overall understanding. What a goof! How like a postage stamp was his ire pinned upon an envelope? How like a clown he was to care! A lost art that bringing him back to write in a stumbling cursive hand letters similar to his long dead mother. An art now long forgotten and delicate that put him in wonder of what he missed. Could he still accomplish such a feat now in old age as putting pen successfully to paper? It might be good to have a talk to that sedimentary brain of his. An organ so calcified with random repetitive experiences that he might have brought a mallet to chip away at old thoughts. The center of the same a rotten onion skin going sour from its growing distance from youth.
There are so may others wandering about inscribed in cubicles merely feet away but completely out of one’s conceptions as a palpable entity. Random bings and bangs and strong but passing aromas of cigarette smoke that challenge one’s sense of calm, and possibly their health. A vast sea of strangers, the evidence of their existence in plain view. Yet nary fit evidence of anyone in active residence. Very little need for the Dragging Canoe’s to strike a reasonable bargain with in this modern era where the biggest danger is yet another amalgamation constructed from the same group whose guile lives inevitably rests within. Villains willfully innocent of the fact that they are their own worst enemy. The rest to comfortable in using emotion instead of their heads. And now look what has occurred across nation! The metaphorical womb found only as a woolly pink hat used to blind one’s self from imagined danger pulling it over the eyes at the first sign of any situation ballooning out of control. All these games enacted at the drop of a hand upon a digital script placed on a teleprompter somewhere. Sleepwalkers bump and grinding to the opinions of the others. Then half jumping back in mock pain as if touched by the mortal flames of an awakening to the truth. Something all so foreign to them.
But then no one would ever hear that thunder for the best definition of human life is to experience the soul. Unable to make any sense of the nonsensical, ‘everybody’s different‘ – ‘everybody’s the same‘ argument from the ever-present dialectic of world Socialism. Confound and confuse is this sort of fractious intellect’s main weapon. The fact of their infamy being in a constant war by continual misdirection leaving all never knowing where to turn for some simple truth. One that in fact has always something outside their technology sphere. Believe! Do it! But never ponder the consequences! Your credit card is your magic key to total enslavement by them. Pulling down the notion of something extraordinary in the coinage of words like “amazing” applied mercilessly to an everyday description of everything under the Sun. The faux wonder of being outside the package and yet never directed to the glaring fact of the paucity of meager insubstantial goods within.
Despite all manner of the invasive disputes one was still able to run over ice and snow at such a high rate of speed that it rivaled someone less than half their age. Another aged soul pushing prodigious amounts of snow ahead from the other direction at the corner. A Monday that had run its course to feel like the inevitable Friday. There is no where to go for any solace from this point onwards.
The bar was packed that Saturday afternoon. Five miles on foot was no longer as easy as it once seemed. The bar tools were almost all taken up along the narrow passage toward the toilets and gaming machines. Three bars tools remaining open at the gap where the barmaid had exit. A logical place to sit amidst all the purely male grunting and growling at the sports of the moment broadcast high up on the back wall. The patter about the latest contenders in the cyclical round of sports teams wrangling for another temporal privilege to be denoted the best. Best quickly being supplanted by another form of trivial competition that would for the moment be supreme. The Big guy at the bar stuck out his paw at the newest member. Softer old well worn office flesh grinding against working man callous. The palaver offered in unrecognizable rising stars and the coming season’s end competition that would close out the past year’s interest. The young female playing bartender passing through her gap sensing her salutation by way of asking the newcomer’s preference. The man having made sporadic appearances over the previous year answering by pointing to the full bottle in her grip. “The same!”, he added. The small girl halted in mid step she ceded the bottle and returned to the cooler behind her to wrestled out another glass soldier for the other unnamed party whisking by to serve the substitute bottle. Albeit a few seconds late.
Perhaps this old geyser was an oddity and not quite unfamiliar to her curiosity. Indifferent to the televised squabbles portrayed by mouth and tongue of flat screened past their prime former performers. He seemed more entertained by the ceremonies of male worship of large men going down the path towards impotence and little remaining social regard. Their drinking and the wealth of pocket required to continue it a peacock driven display of their manhood. Not so the unnamed stranger. The resident house brute a stool away asking his name. Pleasantries exchanged the conversation now took up the topic of weather. The bridge being a statistical quip noting the irregularity of the expected season for the showdown between the two best teams at the holy of hollies. The felicity of the old man’s staring in return interrupted after an interval as he simultaneously waved a tenner in the air to attract the barmaid to the fact that this one bottle green would be his one and only of the day. She asked, “Just one?” He replying to the effect that one being useful to take the edge off of so many miles on foot. Several miles more than usual no longer being as easily traversed as had once been the case. Adding that his drinking habits had descended into what was once considered reasonable by society of years past. The response breaking the plastic visage of her standard act leading to a momentary stony repose.
She offered a tiny heresy that she didn’t even like beer. The declaration and the manner that sh had delivered it revealing an insight that this was a job that she did for money not any sort of personal relish. The hairy old swollen animals along the length of the bar to the entrance a stool bound raging sea of wild beasts. This establishment a man cave bound lair for mildly voicing the discontents of the day of lives gone sour in the reflection of young men tasked to offer the best of what men were supposedly meant to. Physicality remaining here no where near the aptitude or requisite strength to even partially approach it. More rounds of beers being quickly ordered after attentive angst to slosh away missteps of their televised avatars. The old guy at the end of the bar staring unimpressed like a weed up the backside. A lighting spark of an electric more timeless connection between him and the young girl’s confession leading to an affirmation. The world the way it should be having no place in the modern world of a society gone mad on the perception of its own technical invulnerability. Something changed as evidenced by a silence. The game was revealed like the harpoon ridden back of the often storied white whale of old coming up momentarily. Yet all too soon to sound its hoary evidence of old pain back into the deep again. The heart and matters pertaining to the same getting no public airing lest it demonstrate the vulnerability of some weakness. Weakness an old man’s province. Another bar stool prone old inmate far off a testament to blunted manhood. The conversation concluding with the customary gift of advise against indulgence posed in inverted logic.
The sterling moment past, the old sage drained the dregs and picked up his stakes. His grizzly companion of the moment pressing the flesh hard once again. A tumbling rock bouncing politely past the gauntlet of beefy growlers venting their mild frustrations. Coming to rest before his doppelgänger enthroned at one of the two small tables at the front window. Both offering a wrinkle graced grin-like grimace. The table before him sporing a paper plate slice of pizza and a small plastic picnic bowl of tiny pretzels. Light fare for this old pensioner. The jovial gaoler on his way offering, “Two squares a day and all the beer you can drink!” “What a life!” The other old insect stuck upon a pin of a bar stool answering with an equally jovial nod of appreciation for being acknowledged. The bar’s interloper now outside under the cool blue of afternoon’s fade into beginning of the year’s ecliptic bound darkness. The world would assuredly tip back towards light in the coming months. A sense of assurance appreciated for that young man struggling mightily within the slow decay of another old man’s frame. Despite all the memories past of lives encountered and discarded by time he was still very much alive.
The evening had descended upon his biology several hours earlier than expected. The year’s end. It was as normal one could suppose. Way too normal to him. Sufficient warmth, a full belly and a roof over his head yet the reliable stillness engendered emptiness. And while this was not inordinately disturbing it had a nagging quality that required some diversion to keep him from pondering it obsessively. Old movies, Internet or oblivion. The outside at five-thirty in the afternoon more aptly resembled nine o’clock at night. There hadn’t been an evening in the last two weeks that he had stayed awake past seven. A degree of embarrassment in not being able to last past ten. But what was the use? No one was around to disappoint. No one to embarrass. No one to hide how empty his current existence was. It had not always been so. The night was long and maybe much longer than was bearable at this point. What had happened to that far away bygone memory of a world of happiness and someone there to be in love with? Did it ever exist to begin with?
He had been living on a merry go round for as long as he could recall. The notion of fame and glamor as industrially presented throughout his life keeping him in limbo of constant expectation near to fruition. Yet without ever attaining anything of substance. Things that seemed to be touchstones for use to find instant success were found soon as naught to simply become successive waves of empty useless junk. The vacuity that they inspired was ever too obvious to others who felt that his priorities were ever elsewhere. His innocence lost in ceaseless ambition.for his own personal conception of the brass ring gleaming ever more golden at every pass yet ever out of reach. And now he had to live with the fact that this quest had ruined him for the very world that he had desired. That it had all past by him as a result of his own gullibility and foolishness. But why? Something that he might have asked himself many years back without hope of receiving a fit reply. But now approaching the other side of the mountain the answer to explain it had become all too clear. He was a fool. A fool with a lifetime of hard won knowledge come of the hard knocks endured and stowed deep down below out of sight to stew and fester away until today. That was why he realized that going through the motions of an empty dream could no longer provide any sense of piece.
The world was a lonely place because he had not taken the effort to find someone to share it with. To follow what was the normal course of personal evolution of a growing bond of love as found in producing offspring and gaining happiness as well as enduring sadness. But doing so together. It seemed clear to him now. Yet to say so aloud was not possible as it might sound like a voice other than his own pronouncing sentence on one condemned. What did it matter to a society of others if his view of things as they really were held some degree of meaning or influence? It was just a vanity come of a sense of latent insecurity that needed proof of his worth in a contest with phantoms that in the end mattered little now that he had conquered his curiosity about such things. They had turned out in the end to be fictions that dissolved into further unrealities that ultimately led to the consequence of misguided actions. Something a trained bear might sense in its cage hearing the far off melody of other things wild and free. All it could do now far removed is growl and slobber laying listless head upon its paws. Stare out at the world beyond those bars and try to find a way to thank those bars for keeping him safe for what he was no longer fit or able enough to survive.
It was still dark. The tangle of dreams lodged like wheat paste inside the porch of his consciousness demanding a sort before the entire contents was removed to someplace unknown. Were there any pearls of wisdom to be had in his own mental chest of drawers? He could recall the presence of his long departed parents with him. The conversation being something about cleaning out the remaining items somewhere up on a higher floor of the old house built in the nineteen twenties that they had held as income property when he himself was a very young man. The confusion of fading recall that quietly beset him suggesting to his waking mind a conversation centered upon items of his that he had left there long ago, Having been overindulgent in his youth in over coddling him thoughout most of it, not to mention a portion of his adulthood, they had unhesitatingly taken on the task. When he realized that his musing within the nocturnal cloud of wispy presence that these aged spirits had taken on the task merely at his conjuring the thought alone he ran up to the upper level and found the apartment completely cleared out, A bare red rug freshly vacuumed and all other evidence of his former habitation completely removed. This stunning surprise having been relieved of so many half forgotten things classified and logged in vague memory now impossible to recall beyond the fact of their disappearance. He gazed out the back porch window but could find no evidence of anything waiting for pickup by the gate to the alley.Apparently the ledger book in some strange way had been completely cleared?
The sky sitting out beyond the open blinds was not yielding more than an occasional twinkle from far off distant fireflies waiting for clearance from the airport. All was stillness and calm aside from the quiet brushing sound of cars passing over a thin layer of snow that had descended lightly. A new day predicating another new dawning had bustled up against the indeterminate time since slumber had carried him away the evening previous. The number of colorful tiny lights glowing upon the land seemed diminished. Sunday was upon all as the rumble of a nearby car motor struggled to shake off the coldness from its engine block with its growling pistons. The proposition of another day was slowly being discussed in the actions of a few others who had already come to a definite conclusion. The question for himself now being could he shake himself out of the grip of all things past now that he had a sign that it had been cleared away for him? The engine without suddenly fell silent. The cavern of near silence that it left in its wake seemed to demand something definitive from him. A whole new line of thought that was completely unfamiliar. Maybe even intimidating! How to pick up stakes from all things long gone and move on without looking back. It seemed to him sitting there that the first step had already been taken for him.