Wednesday nights

Ser att det var ett tag sen jag skrev här. Kan inte riktigt säga varför. Har tappat mina rötter och ramlat omkring: försökt hitta mig själv antar jag. Tror inte jag har publicerat några långa texter här precis, inte på ett tag i alla fall. Här är i alla fall en jag skrev för ett tag sen. Vet inte om det är något bra, men vill dela med mig av något.

The rush of blood to the head as the alcohol makes it's way through the body. One after one his limbs goes numb. The first drink has settled in his body, lifting his mood a level. Feeling the small euphoria. There's a long time to the introvertiveness of the second, the blurryness of the third. He notices a woman staring at him from the other end of the bar. Is she flirting with him or merely observing his ways? He notices a hint of pity and turns away his head. Why is he ashamed? There's nothing wrong with nursing your nerves a wednesday evening. He deserves it, he tells himself. With this internal statement he leaves the subject, feeling that further argumentation with himself will only make truth to her eyes. No need for explaning myself, no no. Instead his eyes wanders from item to item in the bar. There's only five people there. Two in company, they look like businessmen discussing tactics for the thursday morning meeting with clients. The other two are there by themselves, including the woman with the eyes full of pity(or is she just shortsighted or something). He takes another sip of the Gin & Tonic in front of him. An old Miles Davis tune is playing in the background, echoeing between the black-painted walls. He feels insightful, like he knows something other's doesn't. The emptyness of life perhaps, no not exactly, more like the fleetingness of it. Like he's already moved past this moment, seen the future, smiling at the people not knowing what's to come. He feels as if his life has led up to this moment, as if him being here is a sum or subtraction of all his previous escapedes. 40 years and this is what he's accieved. Maybe he's exagerating, maybe he only feels that way because this is one of those self-reflecting moments, being among old jazz records, drinks, darkness and all. Him being in this bar in an October night in the beginning of the 21th century is the natural result of a serious of events. He could not for the love of his life point out or illuminate certain places in his life where he should have made a slighly different decision. He doesn't regret anything, still he regrets it all. He was handed, he chose, life had him by the balls. Forcing him forward despite his objections. So here he is, this man, not quite a failure, definitely not a success. Average in most ways, ordinary you might even say.

För tillfället är det så långt jag kommit. Skriv mycket gärna vad ni tycker.

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