The places where we would never meet; the time between us, the time we never had together. The cliches we utter a measure of distances, the estrangement of our souls. The clocks we can't turn back. The dark wood that reflects our dark faces back to us.
A man lies in bed, pink and purple-brownish blotches on his face. He needs to phone his sister, is desperate to tell her of his illness, his fall..perhaps to seek some sort of final reconciliation or just to tell her what it's all come down to: alone amongst West Indians, Pakistanis and Bangladeshis. His posh accent and the vague smell of cats. An aunt, one of the few women to fly a Spitfire! What counts? Ultimately, I mean? Only a fanatic asks such questions. Keep the masks on, old b.
He looks at me, and says : "I envy you..nature is working in one when one is young and produces a great harmony, and balance" (I later find out that he's also worked with an orchestra). Of course, all that could be false, the bit about Rolls Royce, about being a pilot, but that doesn't matter somehow: the desire to weave together a story, to kill time...ah, yes, I know you well, my friend.
In everyone there sleeps
A sense of life lived according to love
to some it means the difference they could make
By loving others, but across most it sweeps
As all they might have done had they been loved.
That nothing cures.
---Larkin.
No comments:
Post a Comment