A mural of beautiful women

I had always wished I was in a relationship cohesive enough to be reminded that we had dinner plans with another couple with whom we referred two with both first names as one, as if they were the same person. I liked the split at holidays where the women are in one room and the men are in the other and they make the best out of being there. Occasionally trading legitimate interest with good social diplomacy from event to event depending on the circumstances for the gathering.

There was the function, and while the preparations were being made, the sum of the parts gathered to talk about like interests be it sports or books, or politics.

Just the same I know that, because of what I am inherently, this can’t ever be achieved without monumental discipline. I am against that grain, just as a fish might attempt to walk upon the beach.

No better example serves than the window in my apartment. I thought when I saw it, blind-less and chipping, that I could sit there in the depths of the midnight summer swelter and drink gin out of an old dirty glass I’d used last week and throw balled up pieces of paper at a pile of dirty clothes with bad opening lines that never saw a second because of a vain personal delusion of grandeur. I thought of myself in a loosened tie and an unbuttoned dress shirt, all wild-haired and red-cheeked swooning and screaming at a vision I couldn’t articulate to paper, and lamenting lost women who’ve never given me a second thought save for those astral appropriate times when “who else would you think of.”

I write maybe, because I can never have by a deists’ design a life by which I want, and the talent in all of us is just a manifestation of frustration with some cosmic force we subconsciously decry as cruel. But ours is function, we are still beautiful in our agony and we’re dreamers. Our suicide is a slow and subtle drink by which we channel the muse. We are beautiful painters with a lamentable biography and a can full of words