Walking Song

Walking Song

In a room by the shore lived a boy with an intense hatred of all things. His friends were the people he hated least, the things he enjoyed doing were those that disgusted him less than the others. This is not so extreme a condition as one might think, in fact he was only aware of it on rare occasions. This is not to say that there weren't exception, he loved whiskey for example, but in general most aspects of his life inspired feelings of loathing.

He turned back to his glass and sipped it real slow. He enjoyed the warmth all the way down, he could feel it even after the good, clean taste had vanished. It brought back memories. He remembered preaching Aristotle to his exasperated parents. Not so much preaching as trying desperately to make them understand. Why had he gone down to the park and gotten drunk this afternoon? Because it made him happy, it wasn't hurting anyone.

"It hurts us."

"It wouldn't have if you hadn't found out."

"Lying to us doesn't hurt us?"

"Ignorance is bliss."

He had hated himself for getting caught, for brining that much more stress into their lives. He had hated them for finding out, for not understanding. Do what makes you happy. The Golden Mean. the greatest good.

Aristotle was Dionysus in his purist form.

He wrote that down on the pad in front of him. He reread it, and scratched it out violently. The boy sipped his whiskey and pondered. He looked out the window, just seeing the grey sky over the very tips of the pines, or were they spruce? He reached for another sip and looked back down at the paper, no longer blank but nonetheless worthless.

He looked over in the corner and saw his guitar. The smooth curves, the shimmering finish on the maple. He contemplated playing. He hadn't played for weeks, it was so strange, it used to occupy so much of his time. He had used to love playing, exploring what it had to offer. It had been a long time. Maybe he should play a little.

No. He was writing now. He took a couple of sips and wrote down some lines, He took another sip and scratched them all out. This is useless he thought. The boy stood up and tossed down his pen. He downed his whiskey, poured himself another mouthful and gulped it down. He walked over and grabbed his coat. He walked over and grabbed his coat. He walked to the door and stepped out.

He pulled the collar of his old work jacket around his throat as the wind hit him. It was strange, he could barely feel it, but he knew it was there. The wind's movement seemed to make his world smaller. It made everything crisper, his senses sharper. The light seemed brighter, the air tasted cleaner, he could smell the leaves blowing by. He never noticed the whiskey until he was outside. The wind threatened to carry him away.

He pulled a beer from his coat pocket. He looked down at the can clenched in his hand. It was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. He laughed at himself at that. But good 'ol red white and blue, Pabst Blue Ribbon, cheap ass beer. He loved it. He could remember his grandfather sitting in his rocking chair, Pabst in hand. He guessed that was what had given him the sentimental attachment. That and the fact that it was cheap. He had later found out from his mother that his grandfather was an alcoholic.

He didn't know where he was walking to. It didn't matter. He was just glad to be up and moving. Glad to taste the salt in the air. Glad to taste the autumn. It went well with beer. He looked out at the harbor and saw the steam swirling off the sea, dancing in the crisp morning sunlight. The sky above was an amazing blue.

He walked down to the rocky shore, creeping through back yards, hoping noone was home. His feet left the grass and fell on the hard steady rocks of the beach. He strode from rock to rock, long legs seeking, thrusting. He made his way to a large slippery rock where the waves beat, lapping at his worn steel toe boots.

He stood and looked out to the horizon, feeling the rise and fall of the water at his feet, like the breath of the earth. In and out, in and out. The horizon called to him. It spoke of promise, of infinacy, of eternity. It never ended, it was an unreachable goal.

"Set sail for the horizon!" he clamoured to himself, a little drunk. "We'll reach it by dusk!"

He laughed at himself. He had no horizon, no unreachable goal to set a course for. He awoke each day knowing what would happen, and slept each night barely realizing another day had passed, another fraction of his life was over. It was all the same. Wake up, get dressed,drink a beer, walk to the dock, get the boat ready, haul traps for a few hours, put up with the captains shit, come home, drink, watch TV, sleep. Nothing new, no horizon, just life.

He stood there on the beach and remembered doing just that as a child. He remembered childhood, everything was so fresh and new, a glory to experience. Sleep was horrible, it meant you weren't having fun, it meant you weren't doing, you weren't learning, you weren't living. Now sleep promised that one day was over, that he was one step closer to leaving the mundane. To the end.

23 and already world weary. "You think too much Darrell." he admonished himself.

He looked at the sea and saw beauty. He contemplated just walking out into it. Walking slowly towards the horizon, the waves breaking, first around his ankles, then his knees, then his shoulders, until eventually he would just slide under them. He would walk on steadfastly until the sea stole his last breath. He imagined what that would feel like. It would certainly be cold, he knew that.

He finished another beer and tossed the can, watching it float out to sea. He felt so helpless, trapped in the prison of his life. He wondered what he could do. How could he make his life worthwhile? Seeing the shore and the ocean, and the horizon made things ok. It made him happy, gave him a moment of life. He wondered what it would be like to look at the sea here everyday, all day. Then he knew. That would become mundane too.

He made up his mind then and there. He turned his back on the sea and walked back up the beach to the street. As his little house came into view he kept on walking. He walked down his street, past the wharf, past the corner store, past the last houses of the town.

He walked until dusk before he finally reached the highway. Over this time he'd forgotten he had a house, had a job, had a girlfriend. He had forgotten everything about himself except his name. He walked the on-ramp with his thumb out. Cars wizzed by. An old beat up ford slowed and pulled up next to him.

"Hop in." a gorgeousyoung brunette said through the open window. "Where you headed?"

He shrugged his shoulders. "The horizon I guess."

the end