The Suspiscious Conspiratorial Ramblings of an Invisible Man

Time does pass… Its the saddest thing I know. People change, until I cannot recognise them any longer, and they are strangers in the dust of memories. Places change, buildings collapse, and sheet metal grinds against the grey bricks in the wind… the el train rumbles past, cutting through the aching empty silence of night. I am le homme invisible. Just a shadow on the dusted pavement… Smoking a cigarette. Disappearing. A receiver… Up all night, in bland yellow hotel rooms, watching whitenoise on the television, waiting for dawn. I have a history… Just like we all have a history, but they are only events, which come to pass. Just so. And one night they come rushing back with all the power of an illusion, as though it were actually real… As though you could roll over and touch it in the darkness. But its just there like the fading light, before it goes out in the wind, and the room becomes dark again, lit only with the dim shimmer of the moon coming in from the window, and the lights of industry glowing eternally, as if only to remind you that you too are here on this earth.

And this is what we live for. To remember. And sometimes, in the night I wake, and I am unsure as to whether I am in Philadelphia, or Chicago, or New York, or San Rafael, or Altoona, where greyblack trains rumble through the night, howling and wretching to a stop amidst rusted railroad yards, atop colorless railroad earth… Or in an Ohio truck stop movie lounge, where I once rest my weary traveling head. Or the house on Hamilton Blvd, where I used to sleep after wandering mad through the night… Or Polk and Eddy, where the door kept back the hard faces like stones, sleeping in the alley… For a moment, I am in each of them, though such a time has left me, and long ago. And the elevated train rumbles past, withering, like a snake ingesting its own tail… And dark brownstones crop up out my window, along the distant avenues… and the past and its rememberance disappears, like dust which is bound to disperse.

Yes, time does pass, and we grow old and feeble. Our hands, they loose all the intentionality of youth, and begin to shake with the weight of memories. Our bones grow heavy, and our eyes look out with indifference, on the world that was once so new, so trembling with excitement, but is now waiting to die and be put into the ground. I am a reluctant narrator, drifting… daydreaming… up all night, scorning sleep, till dawn comes and relieves me of my reflections… Like the man on the bus, eyes heavy with tears, and burning to speak to somebody who will understand… Growing old in the shadows of the dow jones…

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About clouddweller

conservationist, naturalist...
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