Bars, clubs, single's hangouts, they can be the worse. Sometimes, you feel as if you're a misfit; a reluctant, unfortunate spectator, watching, as the smooth and vicious volleys of nightlife play out. True opinion. lmr
There are times, some nights, when your ears hear things... they pick up the gist of conversations. You don’t want to hear them.... but, you are a hostage to hearing them. You’d much rather not hear, not feel, not know, such things, because people remain more attractive and retain more nobility when they keep a little piece of their mystery.
But you’re hurled into this large, echoic and cacophonous arena. You’re pitched into this land of ventriloquists, their voices being thrown from the thin lips of the jagged and the twisted. You’re caught… like some reluctant and unfortunate spectator, as the smooth and vicious volleys of nightlife play out.
And it seems as if everybody here wants to be a star, at least after midnight. Everyone wants to shine brighter, sparkle more than the next, to be hotter, and more brilliant than the rest.
If you work in a bar, you begin to intuit this, to know it instinctively, detect it in the mirrors. You can smell it like a foul whiff of smoke. The very bravado of it stinks to high hell! Hubris becomes another player in the room. You get to know it intimately. You hear the riffs of its blatant braggadocio, its egotistical emoting, its convoluted conversations seasoned with slick words, slick proposals and slicker motives that will make you go, “like Whoa!”
You know the routine, and you've seen it all before. You know the stagger, the swagger, the atmospheric strut; the scam, the hustle, the quick dishonest buck. You've even become familiar with the woo and ways of the opportunistic fuck…
And it all makes you lose just a little faith in humanity, especially the drunk and the distraught, the lonely and the desperate, and the desperately lonely kind.
This all paints a wildly psychedelic/imagistic landscape inside the mind how people so easily become victims to the night's carnal crimes, and forge foundations of potentially core relationships on a tradition of paper houses that sit and waver upon acres of bullshit.
However, once, just once, I’d like a night of nostalgia, of respect, of charm, of something on the fringes of finesse. Just once, I’d like some lively intelligentsia which rubs my cranium with a mouthful of loveliness. Just once, I’d enjoy the give and take, the ebb and flow of a buoyant conversation that doesn’t hurt so much, or nulls my senses, make me feel so nauseous, used, abused, or some kind of way where I soon become another sad citizen of the usual Bullshit, a Go-Go.
In short, some people can astound me with their sadness… this way they attempt, yet fail to mask it with manicures or too much make-up, with gym memberships, or impeccably groomed wildness, or with cologne or perfume to drive away the stink of it. I’ve seen and watched them pickle their sadness into fits of supercilious arrogance. Seen them erect their genital sadness; get it to wink, to smile, to do risqué somersaults and parlor tricks in the neon-lit darkness.
I could be far more specific. I could name names and events and even describe, in great detail, the outcome of these jagged little incidents. But why, when doing so would only blast a light upon it and add more sheen to this sadness; this barren piece of celebrity?
I’ve come to see the Saddest Truth of all is this: people, even barflies, even drunks, even users, even thieves, even adulterers, even bitches, even bastards, even bullies, and even hacks like me… we all want a little piece of acclaim.
Why? Maybe because it gets lonely, or maybe even quietly terrifying to be out there inside that fog of horror... only to head back home all alone, untouched, unkissed, unfucked, unfelt, unloved.
copyright © 2016 by L.M. Ross