Downhearted for just a flutter of the lashes
Wednesday
The skin that summer gave me was gradually peeling away like some drab road side advertisement, selling skin cancer, while I perched upon the shrine of a Mr. Moriarty, whom I had never known, in front of a skyline that had known me for years.
I sat and watched the birds, the beach surf, the benign and salty ebb and flow and listened to thought provoking songs that provoked no such thing.
Upon arriving at the cliff I had passed a lady who was staring out to sea, just like me, in a dreary fashion.
Shooting sideways weary glances at canines walking their owners, the ocean became as drab as the people fishing in it and I turned the volume up.
Gulls glided round my retinas, through the thick and mucky colour of my iris and passed me by unwillingly.
I felt like a fleshy mollusk, sucking on the wood whilst old couples walked by and ignored me and young couples walked by and passed through me.
After some time it dawned that I was watching without seeing, not so much watching as waiting, not watching at all.
Bloodied minutes crawled through the battleground clock. I knew what I had come for though I'd never admit it out loud. Disguised by a soothing saunter was a subtle social experiment waiting for a certain serendipity that was always going to be so unbearably far-fetched. Down-hearted for just a flutter of the lashes.
Finally I left the bench that was housing my white lie and turned home-ways.
My reasoning finally absorbed the notion that you were never going to show and walking home I saw the lady again, still settled in the same position. I questioned to myself whether she was watching or waiting, or perhaps even multitasking.
I sat and watched the birds, the beach surf, the benign and salty ebb and flow and listened to thought provoking songs that provoked no such thing.
Upon arriving at the cliff I had passed a lady who was staring out to sea, just like me, in a dreary fashion.
Shooting sideways weary glances at canines walking their owners, the ocean became as drab as the people fishing in it and I turned the volume up.
Gulls glided round my retinas, through the thick and mucky colour of my iris and passed me by unwillingly.
I felt like a fleshy mollusk, sucking on the wood whilst old couples walked by and ignored me and young couples walked by and passed through me.
After some time it dawned that I was watching without seeing, not so much watching as waiting, not watching at all.
Bloodied minutes crawled through the battleground clock. I knew what I had come for though I'd never admit it out loud. Disguised by a soothing saunter was a subtle social experiment waiting for a certain serendipity that was always going to be so unbearably far-fetched. Down-hearted for just a flutter of the lashes.
Finally I left the bench that was housing my white lie and turned home-ways.
My reasoning finally absorbed the notion that you were never going to show and walking home I saw the lady again, still settled in the same position. I questioned to myself whether she was watching or waiting, or perhaps even multitasking.