Thursday, February 04, 2010

The World Breaks Everyone - and Afterward Many are Stronger at the Broken Places.

He stopped his run-down car halfway between the mile markers, one last inside joke.

Stepping out of the car, feeling the rust on the door scratch lovingly against his fingers, he breathed in the hot desert air. The keys shone, still hanging in the ignition, as he shut the door gently, relishing the hard metallic sound of it closing, for the last time by his hands.

A single cactus stood at the horizon, it's arms waving at him, beckoning him onward. And so he walked.

The dust stirred, danced, and died with his every footstep. A sweat broke out on the nape of his neck, beads of moisture appearing and dissipating in the hot dry air. Somewhere nearby the rattle of a predator whispered its poetic song, only to be ignored and left behind.

Wearing the same suit he had been in for days, he took off his glasses and set them upon an ancient rock - a stone monolith that had stood guard, fending off the nothingness for centuries.

Cold in the summer heat, he walked onwards with no one to watch his travels. Many thoughts, visions, passed before his eyes.

The shape of her face, the nose she always thought was too big, but he found beautiful, her hair, dangling precariously in front of her eyes. Standing on the pier, silhouetted by the rising sun.

Her hand in his, cold and nervous with anticipation.

The sweat on her brow, the screams of pain and purest joy.

The quiet happiness he thought they shared. An old house down a dusty road, in a town no one anywhere else had heard of.

The closing door, and the silence - that epic silence that filled eternity.

He blinked away the tears - and the memories he didn't want with him any longer.

The cactus waved, ever so slightly closer.

Miles away a car roared to life, in a city filled with bustle. Somewhere in that city, a woman was just waking, still tired from her night-shift at the diner. Her sleep and life arrested by the arrival of a joyous bundle.

He could hear them, even now. In the rustle of the morning wind, hot and mournful. He could smell the sugary sweetness of her perfume, lilac and gardenias. It carried with it her whispers, of nevers and forevers. The incandescent light was blinding.

The wind kicked up, swirls of dust and debris. In a dust devil he thought he saw a thief, mocking and beckoning.

A plastic bag flittered by, bringing reality back into focus. His car, bought at a used car lot, stood as a dot behind him. The cactus ahead seemed infinitely far away. The last of his money had been spent - there was nothing left to leave, a thought that filled him with remorse.

She would just be starting her day now, he knew. First a breakfast - something simple, eggs and toast, would be prepared. Then a lunch packed, for a child that would never know his name. Then a trip to a public school, filled with minor miracles and tragedies, none of which he would be there for. Then some uneasy sleep, before waking for a day of drudgery. Then cat-calls and nondescript abuse, before returning to uneasy sleep - after preparing a frozen dinner and, if time permitted, a story written in a nondescript notebook. And the whole thing would repeat itself, except for the occasional exception.

He walked into the desert, his suit-coat soaking dust and sweat. Tears dried before they left the eyes - better that way. They were undeserved.

The cactus, just a marker, stood on the horizon still, seemingly no closer than it had been hours ago. The glint of steel from his automobile was as distant as the north star, and as unattainable.

In the abyss, in the middle of nowhere, his thoughts turned towards life.

A child in his mother's arms, a teenager standing on a street-corner, holding the love of his life in his hands, kissing her tenderly. A man, leaving a one-room apartment, going to work, only wanting to get back in time to hold her in his arms before she leaves for her night. A married man, coming home, briefcase in hand, all thoughts of outside responsibilities evaporating at the sight of her. An old man, in his rocking chair, her empty chair beside him, her things left untouched...

The sun shone brightly, blindingly. Jealousy, sadness, longing, grief - all fell aside. The sun cleansed all.

He walked onward, a calm peace descending, even has his knees grew weak, and the day descended into blackness.

Wednesday, January 27, 2010

In the midway of this our mortal life, I found me in a gloomy wood,



The prince laid in his ornate bed, a quiet sigh escaping his parched lips.

On the overly ornate nightstand his drink sat, untouched. The pearls of condensation caught glimpses of light before sliding away into obscurity.

A cigarette lay limp in his mouth, flowing streams of beautiful smoke to the rafters. The ash clung to it, defying gravity and his ever steady death-march, clinging to the moment.

The old clock in the hallway, given to him by his grandfather - a great king of men - chimed the arrival of 5am, and the on-coming dawn.

From her room down the hall, where she only recently had taken to sleeping away the cold nights, Anette played the violin. The tender, heartless notes danced through the halls of their mansion.

Slowly, with shaking a shaking hand, he through the cigarette into a dark corner of his room. This entire place could burn down, he thought to himself, and not a person would notice.

The music stopped.

His sweat-soaked hair fell around Alain, alone in his bed made for a king. Scattered around the floor were old books, the binding bent and pages yellowed with age - remnants of a life not lived. He was to be a writer, once. Praises were heaped upon him, heavier than his father's crown. Unfinished manuscripts haunted his study. On the wall of his bedroom chamber hung a beautiful portrait - Anette, standing beneath the falling cherry blossoms of his family's estate. He painted it himself, a lifetime ago.

Through his window the first light of dawn crept in, shining its brilliance upon the despondence within.

He didn't love her, he realized. He realized that he realized this far too late. He didn't love her, and maybe never did.

Anette was beautiful - even more beautiful than when they first met. Her eyes carried every beautiful shade, the crystal blue of the ocean he took her to when they were still courting. The green of the forest that surrounded their mansion. The brown of the earth from which their love once sprang. And, whenever they spoke of love, the red from her eyes breaking into tears.

She was always graceful. When they first met she was a dancer. She never gained fame or fortune from her profession, the two things she valued above all else, but she glided with every movement, a song more beautiful than any symphony ever composed.

He never loved her, he thought. He loved who he painted, who he wrote of - most often in words too toothsome to be adored by the literary world. Anette was beautiful, but nothing else. She did not read, nor listen to anything he would consider as music. She did not enjoy the cinema, except for the insipid movies he disdained. She was everything he was not.

He did not love her, he realized too late. He did not come to this conclusion until after he had been with her for years, stealing away her best years, after he beauty had begun to fade, after her grace had started to decline -- after her love for him, if it ever truly existed at all, and dried up and died.

He did not love her, he realized, until he had fallen in love with her, far too late.

The cold dawn crept in through his window, lighting the falling cherry blossoms, dancing in the invisible breeze.

Alain closed his eyes and slept.