For people who kill themselves

Posts tagged café writing

Café writing.

Crooked Tuesday 28 Jun 2022

He woke up before bed, more alive than he’d been since walking. Sitting cross legged and throwing his head back in laughter to thank the ceiling. The sky’s brilliance emanating from behind the eyes. It’s 2am, but what do we know about this fellow? I think his amusement comes from radical independance. Because although he moans that his bell is never rung he’s the one who took the batteries out. A wicked game.

His lips are moving as he attempts to define what it is about this scenario which is pleasing. It’s no one thing. One thing is the party lights bouncing up into the frame, it’s ventricular cadence and irresolution. Perhaps that’s not bright but it’s just not asking for anything.

He had conceded to eat a community meal tonight and was surprised by the commodity. The honey man was there whom he threw a concerted salute to in the shadows. It was worth going out of his way to do. Most people sitting on kerbs are.

They’d asked if he needed anything else and he’d been honest, which was embarrassingly graceful. “I do work,” he told them, “but only to pay the rent.” The other lady came over and said they were sorry but had no tissues. “We have paper towel but it’s a bit rough on the face.” He said it wasn’t for his face.

I don’t think you can call it asceticism as that’s deliberate. It’s more like necessitism; as long as they didn’t know about the record collection. The party lights seemed to accent the amusement because you can’t see the pub from the floor but it’s there; among the others glowing and deserted. The emptiness of his life could finally pull the senses into their proper orbit, reflecting those that tend to glimmer. A star is true charity – unpolite.