Sunday, November 7, 2010

the old man writes

The night has grown weary and i cant remember if im where im meant to be. My head has emptied itself of cloudy thought, only to refill with a trickling ringing echo. It must be my sorrows crying to be snuffed out. Raising another mouthful of amber liquid to my lips, my eyes close as i push down this existence with a gulp.
It does little to quell the nagging sorrowful words of Valerie, pleading me to return home. But i do not move. Home means conversation. Home means caring. Home means regret. Despite the things we had given up to live here, this new land gave nothing except a place to drive the remaining bitter years away.
I raise my head, signalling to the tender for another ineffective poison. He returns with the same amber liquid that i had just devoured thirstily. With haste, the ice melts under the combined heat of the bar and my dirty palms. I stare down. The colour is like my country's sky; deep golden sheets that stretched effortlessly across the sky, warming those who dared to gaze upon its varsity. The skys here are barren, void of comfort and passion. The constant blanket of heat is mirrored in the sky, that holds thick in a mans lungs.
But it is not spoken of. The silent bar relinquishes no conversation between its members. It never has, by my diminishing memory. It is a place of mulling. A place for man and his liquid. A place where the ringing regret of home is drowned out by the sound of pouring glasses. Day in, Day out, this is where i cower.
The dry heat melts me to the soft imitation blue leather, welding and making my solitary position permanent until the cash flow runs dry and my return to the detached house and unworthy home. This is where the guilt will eminently return and the weight of what i have selfishly put my wife through hits.
But I hide here, hoping that time will stop or the drink will wipe my slate. How foolish I am.

How foolish we all are.

1 comment:

  1. i didn't know you liked writing morgan! that's fun, keep at it!