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.
What a clear picture of how we, as people, want so desperately to have "peace", to just go through the motions and live in "the meager vapors of manufactured escape" and not have to deal with the struggles that come with embracing life...to get caught up in the mundane so we don't have to deal with the issues that matter. Afraid of what's around the corner...afraid to take a chance. "With all knowledge to gain but all soul to lose, can a man afford that chance?" Are you sure you're just 19? Once again, I am blessed and challenged by your words. You make me smile...and I love you!
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