As I look up at the spinning ceiling fan, memories drift in my mind like moths flitting about in an old attic. I think about when we met at that quaint bar with wooden tables, chairs, and liquor bottles shelved against a wall. I watched you climb the rickety staircase, and wondered what you’d think when you saw me—uncouth, bearded, having lost the effervescence that shone in my eyes during college. You looked the same, and we eased ourselves into conversation while snatches of sentences spoken gamboled towards us from the nearby tables.
You wanted to only drink beer, but we ended up having whisky and shots of tequila. Tipsy, I interspersed serious talk with bits of asinine humour. I don’t know why I did it, and I think that pushed you away. You asked me about my ex-girlfriend, wanting to know everything about her, and I slurred, venerating and cursing her. You then invited me to a few rock concerts by a local band, and I agreed to come, though a part of me wanted silence—not you not speaking, but an overarching hush coating everything with its silvery hue. A need to get away from quotidian routine and excitement. A new beginning and an end.
And perhaps that desire for stillness made me think there’s something wrong with me, and I ended up talking to you about everything in the days to come using droll, self-deprecation. This made you think I was weird, and it’s always either that or people thinking I’m cantankerous—possessed by violent mood swings that rival the capriciousness of some archetypal patriarch, a member of the old tribe who insists that men shouldn’t take after their mothers and become snowflakes.
I’ll end by saying I’ve lost most of my friends. I wonder if it’s because of my idiosyncrasies or because of the confessional nature of everything I say—talking about the darker, heavier aspects of life. They’ve all run away from me as if I were a Lovecraftian monstrosity that impinges on nature and distorts it, shading it a gaudy fluorescence. I’m at the crossroads where ends meet beginnings, and beginnings meet ends, and life might swallow me like the whale swallowing Jonah and spit me out where I don’t want to be, or I’ll sway with its rhythm like I’ve done the past few years, greeting eventide and dawn with the same insouciance.
Here’s the eventide
a call for new beginnings
calm dawn watches on.
Photo by Nicholas Kwok on Unsplash
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