the lost man chronicles
the daily chronicle
the catharsis of writing
a fruitful evening becomes the token mourning
the token grieving becomes the fruitful morning
(a better fate, the bitter wait)
It was all a hoax, a ruse, a big fat bruise to my ego, a regal black eye, the sore sight by which I could not deny I'd been had, how sad it is to even expect the promise to be kept. So there I was waiting, I could have wept while anticipating a miracle to greet me at any given minute. I should have accepted there was nothing in it, this vacuous vessel of hope and resigned to being aware and unhappy, rather than unhappy and a dope. Yes, dumb and empty that was me, as I waited for the Second Coming of this mon esprit, the elusive siren of my phantom lover.
It is such a special emptiness to be in limbo, to not know when or where to go. The waiting is almost grating until the second glass. Then alas, the sting settles in and the fog of resentment dissipates with a grin that turns a smirk, knowing what a jerk you really had been for having faith, knowing that it was a sin that had got you in this bloody purgatory anyway.
Indeed, in my futile state I tried to read at the corner of that noisy bar, but my thoughts were far from the print in front of me. No, admittedly I wanted her to touch my shoulder, even if I had to wait the whole night in vain. Oh, how insane was the thought that she ought to have actually shown. Really, I should have known how brazen it was of me TO BELIEVE that I might actually own this exclusive opportunity to capture some coveted moments with this elusive mystery, the enigma of the eidolon M, when outside my heart and my sensitivity I knew that any such chance was purely a consequence of my conjuring and reclusive imagination.
As I sat in the car on the way home I began to feel solemn, almost as if something had been stolen that had never rightfully been mine. It was strange to be bereft by a theft that never happened. It was a crime so sublime that I was inclined to be happy being the victim of this amorous thievery, stripped of hubris, the arrogant gumption to entertain the presumption that she might show.
Truth be told, I was actually somewhat looking forward to being stood-up. Had fantasized a few times through the day how I would hole myself up with a few rounds lickerish inspiration, a pen and my sorrow. Granted, I would have preferred her company and was anxious to hear about her enchanted existence, for even though it had only been a few months the topsy-turvy nature of her life made it seem like I had missed out on years. But here I was at the Playwright Tavern, and what better venue and reason to write than for that spurred by the spurn of love's disappointment? Enduring this experience was not necessarily pleasant, although the soft chocolate truffles I had intended to give her and the shot of charcoal-flavored Kentucky bourbon whiskey were an exquisite combination. Yet, despite the token suffering it is difficult for me to not appreciate my sadistic fortune when writing comes of it.
If I had not tasted the forbidden fruit, surely I would tire of the disappearing act, but as I was privileged to have more than a morsel, more like a meal, if not buffet, I continue to be okay with the sudden silence and absence of basic courtesies. By now, I just begin to presume that something just happened to her again: she fell out of a cab, rolled onto the curb, than realized she had left her bag with everything on the seat next to her, so she had to walk home and by that time it was midnight. Then realizing her keys were in her bag, she had to wait for the Super, who was out getting drunk with his friends and did not return to the apartment till 2:30 AM. So, being worn out by the episode, she plunked herself on her sofa and immediately fell into sleep mode, without even having a chance to take off her shoes, and at 9 AM still lounges there dreaming of a less exciting life.
I feel better now. How serenely invigorating the catharsis of writing. After my spa in words, I almost feel like inviting the next tragedy, so that I might gladly know more of life's sentiment, the sediment of which settles to inspire comedy and a cornucopia of human epiphany, which I well know I am privileged to both feel and attest to in the manifest destiny of my work. So, it is that I end up relishing the irony that I truly appreciate the no-show after all, for after the fall I was able to get up and look around realizing that I had been downcast into a better fate, which could not be had had I not been through the bitter wait.
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