Queen, Only in Name
A failed musician plays a slow and sad tune in the underground, with one of those bastard instruments belonging to the saxophone and clarinet. Had it not been so shiny it would exactly resemble plumbing.
Baring the qualities of neither parent, it fills the tunnels with the sound of someone delicately farting into a tin.
He hates the way the organic looking woman playing it sways around emotionally when it sounds so awful.
Around the corner in front of the escalator a greasy noodle haired guitar hero shows just how much he can play back in black by AC/DC. To the bottom right of him is an exceptionally homeless man sitting nicely toward him behind a fort of beer cans. He has his legs crossed, dancing enthusiastically and singing along happily like an old man who has to sing the hymn a
fraction of a second after his neighbour in order to know the words. This scene for him was a perfect example of happiness.
A crisis can happen at any age, depending on how fast you have lived.
At the age of despair you have nothing to imagine yourself as, apart from what you currently are. You were never anything before, you didn't need to be yet.
But now, at this age, you can only be what you currently are.
A few years back, maybe, you could have been this, or you could have been that, but in the age of despair you connect perfectly in sync with your humble currency. At this point the poetry in a man dies. A subconscious prolapse of clarity occurs whereby he immediately declares
himself happy, on account of a few nice things he can appreciate. He throws all that luminescent misery into space, to only stare at it mildly, once in a while in secrecy.
He has to be content with sitting in a smelly shallow, cross legged, next to everyone else. All other options have long since sailed away, waving a hanky as they pixelated themselves into the horizon.
He lived pretty fast and his came at the age of exactly twenty eight. He started to panic about his future, and how he would secure a girlfriend. He was ok though, because someone had fallen in love with him pre-crisis. A push in space that produced perpetual everlasting motion. A psychological tablecloth trick.
She was blank, and reflected only outwardly what would please him. Inwardly, her thoughts on how to win him over would reflect back and forth inching down her entrails like the mirrors through the bends of a telescope.
Her escape from crisis was somewhere within his actions toward her and she clung to this need more than she valued water.
She ate dinner with him, desperately.
He, bored with the prevailing silence that followed,watched a really big fly make a tasty walk around the left over gravy on his plate. The fly seemed happy like a fat man. She was waiting to figure out something. He had a list of things to do, that she knew, as he had spoken about them that morning. She was so unsure which she should encourage first that she broke out into a bit of a sweat.
They move to the living room. On a single seated sofa, next to the three-seater he is sitting on, she mindlessly twitches once or twice, to get comfortable forever. Her right hip moves like the flick of a cats ear, as if to dislodge a fly. Her mouth, it is uncharmingly open and moist as if asleep and dreaming.
They both settle in for a lifetime of compromise that removes all confidence and opportunity.
The end.
