Fade out
The snow piles on the handrail. Night lets its curtains fall and soon begins the long dark tea-time of the soul ...
Outside the window the blue sky turns a little towards orange, perhaps a little more towards dusk. I never remember words spoken - they slip past, leaving mere shadows in their wake, but I remember their essence. I remember the light and the voice and the smile behind the eyes. The waitress was lovely and so was the woman with red hair like fire, seated a few tables behind us. She could have been an 18th-century muse who had just walked out of a painting half an hour ago.
Who are you, or what are you? And what do you want? The world which filters in through these five senses or six, divided into four elements or five. Who am I, what am I, and what do I want? I promise to accept you for who you are, and I would like that you accept me for who I am. There is no need to tell me who I am but I would like that you question me for who I am, just as I will question you for who you are. I would rather that you have arrived with me than blindly followed my steps.
The coffee tastes like coloured water. My tastebuds have been spoiled by good French allongé. The cake was too sweet and not bitter enough. The jazz was good jazz.
We sit and form opinions in the froth of hot milk, of what the world is and what our worlds are whilst elsewhere wars are brewing and being fought - worlds are being fought. We, like thousands of others before us, and thousands that will come after us, unless it all ends tomorrow. I want to be happy when it ends tomorrow. Every day ends with a little death.
The snow piles on the handrail - a little more, a little less than yesterday. Cold-flushed cheeks and kiss-orphaned lips. Night lets its curtains fall.
Posted by sniffles at January 13, 2003 10:28 PM