I'm not really going to discuss this one, it's been a spotty week, and this is the results of my wonton brain.
Melancholy embraces me with spiky arms and clamping jowls every late summer breeze. The night spend watching fireflies careen across the skies in a wobbling fashion remind me of two jaded lovers that were young, innocent, and far-from perfection. Imperfect, but who isn't? Fairy tale dreams are for children who are untarnished from the harsh cruelty of now painful true love really is, and the monotony thwt follows, it's almost a hell onto itself,yet a feel that is missed the second it's gone. A drug, a sour, terrible drug, but blissful in nostalgia.
Like another read-through of Dandelion Wine, the summer grows paler, less bright, less cheery, more cold as the autumn begins to ravish the countryside. I sit forlorn about regrets to what happend to my past love, I've been endowed with this blatant reminder that I've lost many chances at happiness, and it is bothersome once more to the mind. Lovers run through it, out of idleness, or out of contempt for my own human error. The summer is harsh on the body, killer on the mind, depraved of humanity,mand engrossed with animalistic lust.
I dream of her, and I am trapped in my own prison yet again, lost in some childhood maelstrom, a condo drum of adolescence haunting a mature mind, on the verge of wearing sweater vests, and taking up golf, am I now in the follies of my time. The peak of my physical bravado, even if it is over encumbered with the weight of late-night Twinkies. Unloved in the summer is a feeling of remorseful vigilance. Confounded with emotions that are now more aggravating than unbearable, I watch the heat lightning in the sky, formulate photographic flashes of my uncouth moment. Bearing witness to my follies of youth, my formulae of contrite pubescent rage, and chemical frustration, I reach for a pipe, and gently puff.
The aroma clears my mind far faster than a Hindu meditation, and with far-greater results. When you smoked your mind focuses on the smoke, everything else is second-nature. You feel slimmer, your hairline seems fuller again,mand all you notice is the curling puffs of smoke elevate to heights that your life will never see. A lowest man on the totem pole where paycheck to paycheck is one sick day away from not making the rent puts all into perspective, and you forget about what's her name for a moment, and clarity comes in, and you breathe a sigh of relief at your dire circumstances. I dare to inhale slightly, let the unfiltered pipe tobacco hit my lungs once more, and cough exceedingly as I douse he not cole with my thumb, and watch the purple-blue smoke rise up to me the full moon, and the stars above, outshined only by the frolicking fireflies, mating out of survival, not some work of fiction of love.
The cool air fondles my lungs with chill, a precursor to the winter chills that deceptively make lungs feel refreshed with twenty degree icicles on the bronchioles, as though Jack Frost can fix tar damage. Everything is a precursor to the next objective, the end-goal is to not die of a common disease. I begin to regret putting out the pipe so soon, but I'm out of tobacco, and relighting embers for one last puff doesn't seem kosher even for smoking standards. I rest my head against brick wall of my apartment stairwell, nestled as tight as a bolt onto the railing, looking up at a suburban-clear sky, and wondering where I belong in the universe. I forget all about her for a few moments, remembering the disposition of my circumstances, and my life unfolds: I've accomplished nothing of greatness, Alexander the Great was already a King of Macedonia and Greece by my age. He was also dead a few years later, so maybe that's a bad example. Accomplishments are usually made by people who've died a very gruesome death, or found themselves at the end of public scrutiny that would've called for his or her hanging if it were just a hundred years or so prior.
I take one last look up at my blessings, and i count them on one whole finger...at least I have my health. Then I rethink...and half my index finger. I walk inside, confused about who I am, and what life means, and I realize that I may never forget my only love, the one that breaks my heart still today, but I do eye call ther was a one last Twinkie in the freezer door, so things were looking up. For now....I'll read Summer's End, hunt down that last Twinkie, and polish it off with leftover sherry wine that is likely to be fermented beyond edible. Challenge accepted.
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