Hi. Once again, I am breaking my traditional form of simply posting a new work without any commentary for the purpose of explaining just a few things. I wanted to say a few words about this piece mainly because it is slightly unusual for a couple of reasons. The first thing to note is that this is, in fact, an excerpt of a story. Though no context is given or any characters' names given, I intended this piece to be understood as a small part of a larger narrative, whether that narrative was written or unwritten (in this case, it's unwritten). Although this is only a portion of a story, I meant it to serve as a kind of synecdoche or post-shadowing of what has occurred. The second thing to note is the point of view from which this piece is written. There is a blending of third person omnipotent and internal dialogue by the character that interweave with no real transitions. I wanted this style to reflect the state in which much of our thought life takes place: in a somewhat ethereal landscape of the physical setting around us and the sometimes tumultuous inner-workings of our mind. The two interact in any number of ways; one inspiring the other, one interrupting the other, or maybe one interpreting the other. In any case, the unique union of these two often results in a disjointed, almost haphazard transitioning between our thoughts and our observations. The man in the story muses and questions quite a bit, and perhaps this is my projection of myself and the weird conversations I have in my head sometimes. But even if it is, I wanted the questions and the struggles in this piece to reflect a larger intellectual and spiritual struggle that takes place as a result of being human. This is not to say that this man's thought process is somehow representative of the human experience, but it is a facet (once again, this is only a portion of a story). Anyway, I thought I would at least explain that much so you have a little bit of context in which to read the following piece. Thanks for your time, and enjoy.
Beale Street
Coughing eyes glared at the glowing end of a cigarette.
Burn.
A resigned thought slowly floated up to heaven, but fell heavily back down to earth under the oppressive weight of the nearly opaque radiance of the orange streetlight.
Doesn’t really matter at this point anyway, he thought with a slow exhale.
The meager vapors of manufactured escape lingered before him in a tantalizing indifference. Smoke and air, one in the same really, or maybe only facets of one another. Who really knew?
Ah light. So much light attempting to cover up so much darkness. Or was the darkness trying to cover the light?
Doesn’t really matter I suppose.
Try to define light and darkness gets thrown in. The absence of light. Was the same true of light? Was light the absence of darkness? Which came first? But he was overthinking the situation.
All that really mattered right now was the cigarette in his mouth and the hole in his heart. Funny thing cigarettes; pleasure from destruction. Wasn’t his life just the same? A happy glow, merrily blazing a trail to a predetermined end, leaving a trail of ash in its wake? Didn’t the sulphurous fumes of his life portend of his fiery destination?
Too many questions. Most people can just smoke.
But then again, maybe it’s those times when one dares to venture beyond where most people go, what most people think, that he can find himself suspended above the chasm of uncertainty, free to find certainty, unrestrained in his efforts for truth. But then, the stakes are raised that much more. With all knowledge to gain, but all soul to lose, can a man afford that chance?
Beautiful night though. If he didn’t know any better, he might actually mistake himself for being content.
A cloud of smoke hung in the air like a forgotten dream, waiting to be revived, motionless and dead in some insignificant and arbitrary form of space. Quiet, surreal. A streetcar passed, moving the dream to uncertainty, swirling, thrusting, contracting. Suddenly to rest where it had begun, only more of a memory, shaken by reality and banished to reside in the minds of those who had known it before. Were men more than this? Do faces mean anything more than what an acquaintance recalls in weeks after?
He pressed his thumb against the bridge of his nose, furrowing his brow. Still too many questions.
He opened his eyes slowly, fearing some new metaphor for the mysteries of life. Barbeque and blues. Not so threatening. He allowed himself to relax a little more once again, taking a deep pull from his cigarette. Beginnings and endings are somewhat inseparable aren’t they? Nothing ever ends without something else beginning and vice versa. Was this really any different?
Whoever decided flashing neon signs were a good idea should be executed immediately.
He sighed. One last pull from his cigarette told him his time was about through. He tossed the smoldering butt to the sidewalk and snuffed it out with his boot. With a final sigh and glancing circumspection, he turned and walked down Beale Street one last time.
