“Miracle cure or not” a man whispers “the seemingly impossible unstoppable path towards the ungraceful demands of aging raise certain questions on the mechanisms of life’s purpose” he continues talking deeper into his glass “perhaps it’s just a question of attitude and realisation towards the finite limits of physical nature”?
Once again I am unashamedly eaves dropping on a conversation, but this was slightly different. The weathered old man was having yet another one way conversation with his beer. Looking already half dead I was inclined to pity him but had become paralysed by watching each sip suck a moment of his life away and in-turn my pity.
Outside the rain was beating down with a characteristicly similar tone to the wretched worn souls sheltering in the bar. If I wasn't already becoming part of the rotten stench of regret I think the smell would make me vomit. A momentary break in the dreary grey refractions of light highlight the colourless characters embedded in already marked graves. These walking dead polluted by everyday impersonality bury themselves in familiar seats like grieving widows.
"It hasn't happened yet" says a voice with blackboard scratching optimism. I pause clenching my jaw and turn around with a murderous stare. I can't utter a word, my eyes say more than enough and I try to stifle the sheer brutality of the reflection I am producing. 'It may not of happened to me asshole, but your already fucking dead' this sentence continuously reverberates around my head and I only hope it doesn't slip from my lips like an unwanted orgasm.
A bus creaks to a halt outside, straining to stop with a vocal whine. I feast upon this temporary distraction staring desperately at an attractive face, whilst a limping toothless ghost drifts to the bar. "Same again" he mutters with confusion and I wish I couldn't remember his order, the very notion ages me. I instinctively switch off through some form of pre-cognitive self defense mechanism. Time flies by with my sub-conscious astride her back and we gallop over mountains, through rivers and streams finally blending into the horizon.
Back, sudden and violent with what seemed like an eternity translating into mere minutes. I the narrator am dragged back locked into this scenario with unforgiving clarity. "Things have got to change" shouts my inner monologue, I can only hope I survive the day. Shallow breathing sets in, my heart flutters and I feel itchy. My mind becomes dizzy from suffocating in this fouls stench, and I realize I am not death proof. If I didn't know better the minutes could become years and in one hour I would be dead.
Tick, tock, tick is this my forever loop from which I may never wake. The language of these mishapen souls becomes my own and the rhythm by which they fade is now mine. The air swirls around me stagnant and unwell whispering forgotten tales of heart ache, regret and wasted life. Sacks of congealed matter shuffle around purposelessly dissolving time with anesthetized sighs. All I feel is the pain, razor sharp fragments peeling away my flesh with each precious second. I must purge it from my wallowing mind in order not to suffocate.
In this haven of misery one of the greatest sorrows is the squandering of potential. This is where my half baked life finds it acceptance amongst the living dead. I feel frail and elderly, supporting my worn frame whenever possible. My skin hanging off my bones, internal organs functioning only through habit and each breath barely filling my lungs. Gravity seems to have forsaken me, I feel mud fill my skin, lead course through my veins and my eyes (worn away by the elements) do there best not to drop out onto the floor.
I listen to this noise shattering around my head, mumblings become tongues, mono-tonal and submissive. There must be a pause or temporary escape, will someone say something interesting? Even the old fool drinking his way into obscurity has become mute with apathy. Death casts a heavy shadow on this room, yet no one stirs or blinks an eye and I cannot suffer this exile from life. What door must I open to lead me from such madness?
Slightly hidden, underneath the background, a faint whispering creeps with stealth into my awareness. The sweet fragrant chatter of a dearest love makes her intentions known, and the pull of desire takes a deep rooted hold. I stare longingly at the array of alcohol and the medicinal qualities that would unfold with numbing satisfaction. To be anesthetized by distilled indifference has become unhealthily appealing and the perpetual trap of denial has been sprung.
If the morrow is to become better than the day then this one way road shall be forgotten and I will endure this psychological violence. With senses crumbling and passion being over run, to whom do I report these thought crimes? It would be wise to rise above these self induced toxins but there is nothing antioxidating about this atmosphere. My thoughts and words prove to be just to fragile and I unable to break the spell that becomes me, where do I run now?
Outside the rain has silenced it's cleansing melody and the sun stretches it's might drying away despair with rays of hope. The flow of everything is uplifted and I ask for it to spill into this unmarked grave. Nothing but nothing can revive this pit of enchanted sorrow and I feel powerless to shake it's weight from my mind. I look around in search for answers with the needs of a maniac. The mumbling man melting into the bar has woken from his slumber and begins talking back into his glass. I edge over thirstily but not wanting to wake him from his living dreams.
"If I die here, now, would everything I am implode back into the ether for one final dance. A cascade of chemical reactions and twisted beauty going super nova. When the last death throw whimpers away, will the fragments of my life just dissipate in the minds of those who I have left behind" I am pulled in with gravitational attraction "Is this the sum of my existence, an affair with life a marriage to death, will my everything just fade until there is nothing but particles of skin flickering, shimmering in the sunlight that streams through an empty room?"
My soul feels like a withered gnarly root but it's ok, what he is saying is somewhat reassuring which seems absurd given the context. So in this bleak picture I have painted with it's hues of grey littering the page like a colourless Pollock, I find solace in this seemingly negative imagery. Despite the mental state I'm experiencing I still know that, sooner or later, I will find a hidden pocket of strength that will pull me out of this ragged hole of self pity. The ghosts will frequent this place whether or not I or anyone else pay's any attention. So in a very human way I will go about my business, frozen in my own perception never really sure if anyone else actually exists, or for that matter even I.
