Monday, 31 January 2011

Notes from the front line by a lonely coward endeavouring to live in between the empty spaces of this life

He couldn't write under these conditions. He had a couple of ideas. Walking past the bars alone, too timid to venture inside any of them. That time in India he had spent the day alone, a draining gulf of a day.

He had walked to the beach. He felt a vague yen to swim. But he didn't go swimming because there was no-one to watch his stuff and he didn't trust anyone. He sat on the beach and a wizened old woman approached him, offered to massage his feet. Brought him a Coke. He watched the waves.

He went for lunch at a restaurant near the beach. I can't remember what he ordered to eat. He drank two beers, maybe three, which afforded him a brief jolt of euphoria. But then that passed and he felt quite deflated, probably worse than before.

He went back to the room and tried to write something and then masturbated. A weak, jittery orgasm. He felt awful. He felt worse than ever. He went out and maundered around the pointless afternoon streets. A sublime weight over him. His eyes watered, his soul was drowsy, he was unable to move correctly.

He met his friend later that night and they went for dinner. He barely spoke a word. There was little worth saying.
They walked the night streets and he sipped from a Pepsi bottle liberally dosed with cheap Scotch. He felt remarkable. He began lashing out at his friend in deranged violent glee. Life was spectacular.

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