I sit in a quiet corner of the raucous bar. Happy hour is well at hand and the motley cast of irregular regulars have all checked in. All are accounted for and in their designated spots already playing out their designated roles in this production which I designate a comedy of errors and folly. In reality though, there is nothing amusing about this scene except perhaps how utterly tragic it truly is. Each laughing face has it’s own sad, sad tale to tell; some will readily share, while others require a lot of drinks and a little bit of coaxing. It’s always the same you know, love lost. They will always tell you about how great life once was; with half-shut eyes ever to seem falling asleep in a half dream. They will always dwell on the past, and what a wonderful existence they once had, happy in love and in money and in hope and in dreams: always a victim it seems. Always swept away in the undertow of their hubris. So they come here to sip distilled and refined and redefined lotos to try and forget their troubles; and miserably fail. The lotos does not forgive nor does she allow you to forget. A lonely night hunched over the toilet puking your guts out is oftentimes the reward she gives.
I sit in a quiet corner of the raucous bar. My stein, light beer of course, three quarters empty now. The thin layer of ice, which once lined the wall, has now formed a puddle at the base of the glass. The molecules of water unsure of where to go cautiously still cling to the bottom of the vessel which they have always known as home; as is the case with all of the drunks in this shithole bar. There are countless places in this town where these people could go, yet they keep coming here for more and more, every night, every week, every month, and so it goes. There is magic in these walls which one cannot ignore. Or perhaps the magic of this place has been systematically sucked out of the lost souls who continuously frequent it, along with their paychecks. I like to believe the relationship is symbiotic though. This place gives back just as much as it takes. It gives false hope, false courage, and sometimes, if you’re lucky, a clumsy night of false love.
3 comments:
ah the arrogance of misanthropy, sit in a dark corner and grieve your fellow beings. I think it childish (silent chorus as you are, haven't you heard of the compassion to help out these poor zombiesque souls you watch incessantly?) and mediocre (such a painful sight.you might want to share your caricatural views with whom it may concern, see how they react, see how right or wrong you are at assuming that those flaws you have listed here are all there is to people). Don't get me wrong, I'm not some flamboyant humanist marching in streets and reciting the declaration des droits de l'homme. I just find it too easy, this contemptuous talk about strangers. It's tempting to criticize without justification. And before you start insulting me, I do happen to write similar stuff as well sometimes. Fortunately, I delete it.
In my experience, I've found it's easier to criticize than it is to self-analyze. Which I find ironic as they are one and the same.
Tattooedbrain. As a matter of fact I think we were at the same bar. If you recall, we did about 20 shots. You and I toasted life, love, and luck. By the end of the night you told me you “love me as a best friend.” I said the same. We parted ways never to see each other again
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