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22.04.2006 ~ Writing

A spare few minutes yielded the scribbles below. If you have a few minutes give it a gander, let me know what you think.

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A jameson with a jameson chaser. Consolation. Warm consolation.

It's that time of year again. They used call it 'the anniversary' and smothered you with presence. Just one day. They're not here now.

It doesn't matter - whiskey is an able substitute. It's has been for a long time.

Your throat burns again. The only constant left.

The paper stares back at you. Obituaries. Familiar names. One more-so. She didn't always stand out - why now? Why today? Every bloody year.

She'd been kind. More than kind. An ear and a voice that saved you during the first bad time. A deliverer of goads and praise in equal measure. Only she drove you.

Potential. You'd lost count how many times she beat that horse. Constant hypothesis of ifs and thens, should you only get off your ass.

And it worked. Her belief forced a hole in the bad times, and for the longest time you shone. She spoke of settlement, a union. But it was your time. Everything else could wait.

And how you shone. Your light attracted the interest of others. Female others. Miners she called them. And your will was never strong.

Thing is, it wasn't your fault she was born plain. God just fucked up. The qualities that blessed the miners in abundance were in her, sadly lacking. But it was those qualities you desired.

Miners. Dress and demeanor that screamed promise. Promises of the flesh and the triumph of the things they'd let you do. And they did. Your promise and potential opened more than mere doors.

But Newton got it right. Tales were told, reputations built and finally, questions asked. You considered lying at first, but dismissed it. Why should you have to justify yourself to her? What had she ever done for you?

She left. Curses still ring in your ears. You didn't follow, why should you?

You'd hear, over the years, second hand tales. She'd married. A baker, if the various reports could be believed. She settled down. Got what she always needed.

You did the diametric opposite. You pretended to shine your brightest. You got everything you ever wanted, and prayed she heard every minute. Everything you ever wanted. Save her. This invited the darkness.

You never speak of it, your fall.

Rumors suggest but never confirmed, it had happened after an attempted reconciliation. You needed to see her, tell her how you felt. How you feel. She saw you, then through you. Your noble gesture exposed for what is was, then completely dismissed. You never speak of it. You needed to.

Talk tells you tried again. They like this part. They like what you did to yourself afterwards...

Her name stares back at you now. The small column betraying she'd ended a childless widow, her entire span enclosed in tiny brackets. Every year you follow this ritual. Too bad. The world needed more of her and less of you. The paper reminds you of that. Once every year. And charges sixty Euro for the right.

She's laughing now, a Guinness near her lips. Her family surrounds her. Always at this time, in this pub, each and every year. You lift your jameson, your warm consolation. Maybe next year...

Tags: 06, writing.