Siesta: The Sun Never Rises
October 14, 2010 § Leave a comment
Tonight in The Palace a twenty-six year old Scotsman guessed me. Read me. Knew me. Twigged me from afar as I twitched on my high stool and propped my chin on the bar. I was the twenty-something (early days yet) student with a scarf wound round my curls, swigging merlot, gloomily peering over the horizon of To the Lighthouse. Tapping my brogues against the chipped paintwork and draining the corner of its silence.
And it was disturbing, for I had made a decision to be different and suffer in silence the comments of the kids I avoided on the Parade. My solace was my difference. Now what do I have? Are we all the bromide same that similar same? Is there any point in trying?
‘She lives in the west end. Cycles a battered hipster bike to college at noon, never quite makes morning. Wears chunky glasses and Merdman sweaters on occasion. Has been there, done the girl thing and rarely mentions it. She believes she is the only only only lonely only one to have been broken and is not aware that it is a mere tunnel until she exits and realizes its impermanence. She prefers fruit and fibre to cornflakes, rarely rakes out her heels. Is looking for something or someone although she is not aware of it, as she seems to scrutinise each face that passes, and then redrown redrown redrown down down again, into the land of wolves and women.’
Don’t read me. I know medical men love to diagnose, love to guess symptoms and define a person, but do not mention that word again. You know the one. It begins in ‘c’ and ends in me leaving.
It also ends in ‘é’.
I don’t want to be summed up; I want to be stripped down by a boy with a Cuban tongue and eyes as black as mines. This is my illness.
For my love (infatuation?) makes seven flights of stairs feel like six.
Tomorrow then? Morning? Almost gone ten? The lights not quite turning green? Please have a voice, for I am voiceless under the humming haunting thump that is heart heart heart.