Felix C
04-07-2008, 01:26 PM
I step out on the street and into a strange kind of darkness, which does more than just reveal the absence of light, it enhances a peculiar human glow that has only recently been discovered. On the way down in the elevator I put a cigarette to my mouth, except it doesn’t call itself that, it renames itself in the mirror on the slow way down and says it shall from here on out be known only, as a fools toothpick, I laugh and say, good one. The words keep repeating themselves on the pavement, but here there are other things and the words are overpowered by the deafening silence of the Sunday crowd that isn’t here. Today is the day we hide, at home with our wives and family, or in drinking parlors, where we can drown away the shames of yesterday. I step into a bar for a glass of ink and I can instantly tell that to the untrained eye, I am the most interesting person here. But today the beer goes deep, scratching at my imagination, and at home there is nothing but the painful birth of an unwanted sobriety. This is a night to reflect and these few drinks are not in vain.
On the way over I saw a small movie theatre I hadn’t noticed before, it read “Orion” in big neon letters and with a smile and a shy bow it told me the story of why it was dying. It said that there were no new lovers to replace the old, and I could see the marks on its face from where the crows had dragged their claws across it. To me it was beautiful, but what I saw as a wonderful reminder of a wonderful past, everybody else saw as nothing more than crippled relic, showing movies no one wanted to see. But standing in front of that pipe dream palace I read the stories never written in stone, China Samurai Week and California Dreaming, it read. I fell to my knees and in a daze I told it that I was in love, and that I would one day soon return to kiss its moldy lips.
Now the walls in the bar are red and it is filled with people who have questionable morals, they speak in code and laugh at the intervals. The noise they make sounds more animal than anything else and the music in the background confirms this, I don’t know how else to explain it. I check my phone for friends but thank god it’s silent. I suck on a toothpick and order another beer.
I realize, that I am a man not bred for these circumstances and that is why my heart pounds on every page, at times so hard I fear that my pen will cut thru the thin paper and carve my name on the wooden table beneath it for everyone to see. A girl just came and asked me if I wanted to come sit at their table, I said “thanx”, but I have work to do. Sometimes I fear that, to the untrained eye, I might actually look like the most interesting person in here, besides I am sitting in a would be spotlight in the middle of a spoon room and she was just being nice. I get scared thinking that soon, I will have written my fill and must look up at the people looking at me and realize that I am drunk, and that my handwriting has gotten sloppy.
Before I go, I say goodnight thru the bottom of the glass and think; I like this place, even when the people kept bumping into my table on their way to the bathroom, spilling their shadows on my page. I like this place because the mirrors are covered with stickers and the people are loud. But now it is time to leave.
On the way home it rains and I eat liquorices candy I had forgotten in my pocket which reminds me of my childhood. I see a man who looks like a friend, but he is just a stranger laughing at the stars. When I look up, I only see clouds. Somewhere in the distance I hear the crackling of a wet match, trying to set fire to tomorrows newspaper.
On the way over I saw a small movie theatre I hadn’t noticed before, it read “Orion” in big neon letters and with a smile and a shy bow it told me the story of why it was dying. It said that there were no new lovers to replace the old, and I could see the marks on its face from where the crows had dragged their claws across it. To me it was beautiful, but what I saw as a wonderful reminder of a wonderful past, everybody else saw as nothing more than crippled relic, showing movies no one wanted to see. But standing in front of that pipe dream palace I read the stories never written in stone, China Samurai Week and California Dreaming, it read. I fell to my knees and in a daze I told it that I was in love, and that I would one day soon return to kiss its moldy lips.
Now the walls in the bar are red and it is filled with people who have questionable morals, they speak in code and laugh at the intervals. The noise they make sounds more animal than anything else and the music in the background confirms this, I don’t know how else to explain it. I check my phone for friends but thank god it’s silent. I suck on a toothpick and order another beer.
I realize, that I am a man not bred for these circumstances and that is why my heart pounds on every page, at times so hard I fear that my pen will cut thru the thin paper and carve my name on the wooden table beneath it for everyone to see. A girl just came and asked me if I wanted to come sit at their table, I said “thanx”, but I have work to do. Sometimes I fear that, to the untrained eye, I might actually look like the most interesting person in here, besides I am sitting in a would be spotlight in the middle of a spoon room and she was just being nice. I get scared thinking that soon, I will have written my fill and must look up at the people looking at me and realize that I am drunk, and that my handwriting has gotten sloppy.
Before I go, I say goodnight thru the bottom of the glass and think; I like this place, even when the people kept bumping into my table on their way to the bathroom, spilling their shadows on my page. I like this place because the mirrors are covered with stickers and the people are loud. But now it is time to leave.
On the way home it rains and I eat liquorices candy I had forgotten in my pocket which reminds me of my childhood. I see a man who looks like a friend, but he is just a stranger laughing at the stars. When I look up, I only see clouds. Somewhere in the distance I hear the crackling of a wet match, trying to set fire to tomorrows newspaper.