Post by franklinmarsh on Apr 25, 2014 13:08:11 GMT
Ibiza in the 1960s was a different world. Quiet, warm, beautiful clear seas, populated an indigenous people who tolerated visitors in a curiously offhand way. There were very few visitors as a matter of fact. The inevitable eccentric English, a few Americans bitten by the travel bug, some European sun-worshippers. It was a place to recharge your batteries, to relax, to drink slowly, perhaps even to write. I wish I’d never gone there.
We live in a different world now. Perhaps I’m getting old, but there’s so much bitterness, hatred and…well, evil. A ridiculously old-fashioned word, but I can’t think of anything better to sum up what we’re in the midst of. I look out of the window at the rain, the urchins, the foul-mouthed obese zombies who have no hope but manufacture happiness through artificial means, and I try not to cry. That would show a weakness that would expose me. All they want is a hint of a weakness. I can’t afford that. I’m nearing the end and I will not succumb.
Arthritis? Rheumatism? It’s a slow, creeping process. I’m gradually losing mobility. Being hemmed in. There are things I could do, would have done in the past, but I’m losing my certainty. I keep thinking of Marjorie. Of visiting her. I haven’t seen anyone for days, and I worry that I would go to her merely for the company, rather than her help. I couldn’t ask her, I couldn’t tell her why. And a small part of me fears that she would suspect what was really ailing me. (And an even smaller part fears that I would gush out my heart, and she wouldn’t take me seriously). It’s so difficult to remain strong.
It’s getting colder. I can’t afford to heat the flat and I won’t beg. Darkness is descending outside. I don’t want it to envelop me, but I can’t afford to switch on the lights. It’s ridiculous. That Evil should gain the upper hand via poverty. I showed such promise! I could have been somebody!
I’m shivering in the chair. The blanket that enshrouds me provides no warmth. It’s darker in the flat than outside. The streetlight hints at their gathering. They avoid the yellow glare, but I know they’re knitting together, absorbing strength from one another as their numbers rise, propagating in the darkness.
I have no weapons. I forfeited them in Ibiza. I was foolish. I was young. The young do not look forward, they cannot predict. I basked in warmth, in altered states, in what I thought friendship. I did not realise that it would end in cold, in harsh reality, alone.
END
We live in a different world now. Perhaps I’m getting old, but there’s so much bitterness, hatred and…well, evil. A ridiculously old-fashioned word, but I can’t think of anything better to sum up what we’re in the midst of. I look out of the window at the rain, the urchins, the foul-mouthed obese zombies who have no hope but manufacture happiness through artificial means, and I try not to cry. That would show a weakness that would expose me. All they want is a hint of a weakness. I can’t afford that. I’m nearing the end and I will not succumb.
Arthritis? Rheumatism? It’s a slow, creeping process. I’m gradually losing mobility. Being hemmed in. There are things I could do, would have done in the past, but I’m losing my certainty. I keep thinking of Marjorie. Of visiting her. I haven’t seen anyone for days, and I worry that I would go to her merely for the company, rather than her help. I couldn’t ask her, I couldn’t tell her why. And a small part of me fears that she would suspect what was really ailing me. (And an even smaller part fears that I would gush out my heart, and she wouldn’t take me seriously). It’s so difficult to remain strong.
It’s getting colder. I can’t afford to heat the flat and I won’t beg. Darkness is descending outside. I don’t want it to envelop me, but I can’t afford to switch on the lights. It’s ridiculous. That Evil should gain the upper hand via poverty. I showed such promise! I could have been somebody!
I’m shivering in the chair. The blanket that enshrouds me provides no warmth. It’s darker in the flat than outside. The streetlight hints at their gathering. They avoid the yellow glare, but I know they’re knitting together, absorbing strength from one another as their numbers rise, propagating in the darkness.
I have no weapons. I forfeited them in Ibiza. I was foolish. I was young. The young do not look forward, they cannot predict. I basked in warmth, in altered states, in what I thought friendship. I did not realise that it would end in cold, in harsh reality, alone.
END