Friday, February 22, 2008

The Voice of a Hidden Past

Tonight, I was having dinner in a restaurant that reminded me of the old days when I used to paint. I would dine there almost religiously every Sunday night when my innerscape was brimming with the artistic ventures of the weekend.

The mood this evening was different, however. The people all around me were having animated conversations about nothing and they mirrored my own sense of emptiness from a draining week of work.

By the end of the night, one of the local Mexican musicians had slipped into the restaurant to play his guitar and sing, as was custom in this part of the city.

His voice bellowed with a magnificence that spanned the dimensions as he stood right behind me, like a ghost of my own self suddenly bursting forth into full blown glory. People continued with their conversations and their laughter as the booming man filled the atmosphere to the point of overflow.

The man's face: weathered and old, beaten, yet full of life!

The Yearning

I lead a life so busy, so endlessly busy.

Between work, and writing, and people, and work, and music, and work, and work, and art, and work, and while sleepy arm extends forever outwards, far, far into the night comes the outstretched hand of the somnambulist grasping the air, reaching for Time.

The tears shed rhythmically with the breath of my lungs, absorbed by the spirit world, wiped away by the ebb and flow of dream after dream after dream.

Tonight, during a phone call I was urged to buy a new car, to replace my old, leaking, wreck of an embarrassing vehicle.

The writer in me was too tired to speak. He speaks now: "Money is my blood, forever dripping away. Why would I funnel my blood into a brand new car?"