The Book of Michael

Untitled; Mon Ami, J’Taime(chapter one)- SecondComing

     It started off one day, walking through Central Park, glimmering sunlight glistening off softly sinking snowflakes, an idea.  Not just a notion, but thorough brilliance struck, as vivid and picturesque as the sunset over a south Florida beach on a cool spring night.  The memory stings the back of my head and crawls down my spine, infecting my subconscious with immense pain, for not fully comprehending a loss.  Infectious is a smile, to as infectious is despair.  

     While I sit at my desk, on a brisk fall afternoon, staring at the clock, counting the hours, a seemingly never ending cycle, the arms of the time piece seem to taunt me.  A feeling of abandonment, of looming indefiniteness, I see no resolution to my dispute with the universe’s time constraints, or better yet, my jobs.  Wake up early, come home late, a feeling of mediocrity, a suffering almost none can bare.  Six P.M. everyday, dart out of the door, hope not to be stopped by any intolerable coworkers and begin my journey across the hazardous landscape of public transportation, a demon a perpetual time decay in its own right.

     Days upon days seem to fade in and out, as they do, in a cyclical micro-verse, submerged in subdue-ment.  Stumbling out of the back door of my suit, Paris, France, a happy drunk mazing through cobble stone streets as if they where the Minotaur’s Labyrinth.  Here lies a man, in desperate search, of a comfortable patch of grass in arms reach or a croissant and a glass of chardonnay to cleanse his pallet.  While traveling to find one’s self, often times you may find much more, but not quite “it”.

     What was found during those fond days and fiery nights along the River Seine, now seems illegible, but allegedly was indulgent, and quite the time, “at least from what the pictures tell me”, as my memory is faded.  Can one truly not look unto the past, so much as the masses look to a future already found, as I feel, one that is much more clearly illustrated than our past.  My actualization only becomes realized upon the derivatives of others, as each failure is a lesson learned, and no field of study is easier to fail at than public relations.  As for me, I try to keep it under raps, but as is stated, failure comes to easy.

    The sun peeks over the Eiffel on a stagnate, somber, and soggy morning.  Dew dripping from blades of grass in the surrounding gardens, also from my back and face, I’m left to ponder my arrival.  ”How did I get here!, and manage not to be removed by the patrol?” run through my head, but for a moment, as I wipe the sleep from my eyes.  To the nearest pub, or whatever they call it in French, let me not waist any of these morning hours, and definitely need to leave before the onslaught of on-seers come to gaze at the monument, “God, tourists”, as if I am not, well at least not your typical.

     Finally I find myself on a back “rue”, really just an alley, and stumble across a quiet looking eatery for breakfast, an Irish coffee followed by a deep red.  Hours seem to pass at the speed of light outside of this obscure little dive, and I ponder, I don’t know what I ponder, I only know that I do.  Until I’m abruptly taken back by a passing glimpse of a wristwatch out of the corner of my eye, noticing that it is now one thirty in the afternoon, and I, I need to be on the next train to England in an hour.  Not having time to waste I throw a pile of euros on my table, place my mug atop them, to prevent the wind from walking away with the sum, and dart to the nearest sight of a cabbie.


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