End of the Road
On Commercial Street there are a thousand windows, bleak and square unornamented windows reaching up as high as the eye cared to wander. Pale green, opaque, unblinking and excluding. There was no litter on the ground for the wind to disturb, nothing for the eye to rest upon but brick walls and boarded up windows. It seemed as if the only glue that kept these walls and streets from collapsing, the only force preserving these impenetrable and uninspired surfaces was credit and rents.
The walking and the cold air had numbed him to the point where the entire darkening city seemed like nothing, but a hard projection of an individual’s loneliness, a loneliness so deep it muted sounds – car engines, nightclub music and lovers’ woes till he could hardly hear them. As the night drew in his prevailing melancholy set in and he began to consider how all of his dreams have failed to materialise much like the starts in the polluted night’s sky. Once we had it all, or the possibility of all. The future was uncorrupted and ours to form our own myths within in, the excitement of its possibilities ensured we could not sleep at night; not even dare close our eyes. When we dared close our eyes we slept like the dead such was our contentment.
Surrounded by the boarded up shop fronts and inhabited doorways it appeared to him that the disparity of where we are and where we want to be is frightening and what keeps us awake at night. Our failures and regrets engulf our thoughts and haunt our dreams in the shape of spectres, spectres of our promise. He keeps his head low as he walks through a crowd gathering outside a pub, his heart sinks as he becomes aggrieved by the knowledge that no one knows what their worth when no one gets what they deserve. Hopes are paralysed in this life and dreams are still born.
He wishes now that he could remember every little moment but he can’t, he gets frustrated, why is it we only remember the moments that we do? What happens to the others? Are they less significant because we can’t remember or more significant for that very reason? He wonders are the moments forgotten the ones that shaped the man he cannot face, the man that stares back at him now from the off license window. He recalls when he was very young and he could not grasp how old everyone was or not so much this but more so how you gained a past. He would see photos of himself much younger and not believe it was him but a changeling. Everything then was based on the future now it is the past that holds precedence as the future is not what it used to be in a life incapable of love.
Rage Against The Dying of The Light 