the time goes by like a gust of wind..

Where is the time? I asked myself. The night was slowly dying away and the moon was releasing it’s last bright rays of light on my dark clothes. The room was covered with a layer of blue moonlight, and all I saw was the orange glow of my lit cigarette reflected in the window that looked into the wild jungle. I poured myself another half glass of whisky and filled the rest with coke, that cheap stuff isn’t worth the hassle of trying to enjoy a glass of pure whisky. The diluted alcohol reminded me of myself. The night was slowly dying away. No soul to be spotted except the stray cat looking through the rear window, peeking inside, trying to figure out wether or not there was life to be seen inside the dark shack. It seeked shelter from the chilly nights of the countryside where I retreated from the city life with myself and cheap booze.

The shack was cosy, inhabited by no one else but me and a few spiders hiding in their nests, hiding from death-by-shoe.

The broken windows in the front let in a cool breeze. It freshened the air in this small space and occasionally cleaned it from the blue cigarette smoke which was illuminated by the moonlight. My lungs were filling up with nicotine and my head was poisoned with the cheap drink. Grade zero alcohol, you couldn’t find any better poison.

 

I was a soul destined to be torn up by these two manmade demons. They haunted the minds of manicly depressed actors, writers, artists and young troubled minds such as mine. They took a life here, took a life there. I was there, in the shack with the demons, one trapped in a bottle and the other disguised in a white suit with an orange end. Why did I do this? I asked myself. Why did I drive all the way down here to this desolated place to spend the next few days drinking myself to sleep? A while ago I realised that the demons were simple catalysts of art. No more bullshit and shortcuts but the straight line was what remained after that encounter with those two agents of truth. No more maybies and endless questions but the truth was what remained. Sometimes when you lose yourself and you don't know anymore, you simply drink to remember what you felt, what you thought and where you were heading. I learned to use this to my advantage and write what's trapped inside of me.

 

I took a notebook and a few pens and decided to write and write and write. I would leave only when I would write something sensible or even something that pulled me back on track, or whenever I would run out of demons to spend. The pen flows, the heap of ashes got blown away by the breeze and I am reminded of why I'm here. Fill up the next glass and light the new cigarette, this will be a long night my friends. The demons look over my shoulder and hold my eyes open. Whisper in my ear. The ink flows, the words fall letter by letter. There goes the time.

Reviews

[Cool Handless Luke]

Artists do often tend to find their inspirations in dark times don't we?!? Well penned introspection in what it takes sometimes to find your muse and fill those empty sheets of paper. Very descriptive. I don't usually read too many stories but I am glad I did this one.

[plainme]

Yes we do, well I know I do. But not always. I realised that the pieces I write in those times are the darkest. I somehow manage to infuse the words with the darkness surrounding me. Thank you for reading!