One final journey into the depths of Europe, a goodbye lap, early in the morning, late at night, through dewy, moonlit channels, arguing about the important matters.
In cities going to sleep or just waking up, I'm not sure which, fragmentary beliefs snatched back, plucked dreamlike from half-dawns, perhaps a glimmer that the space of escape, even briefly, is once more there. A safe spot, however deluded.
Birthday cavern. Daybreak haven returns. Squished intensity as awesome tower lanterns beam stoically in the background.
Whirlpool poignancy. Slumbering into a return. Curtains drawn, but it's clear it's a hazy day on the other side of them. Lives unrelenting.
First thought: sleep is a place where I descend to remixed chronologies and win the cruel semblance of imagined peace. In this dream-burdened room the sensation throbs and grows and seeps into every moment.
But then the night, falling away, rushes in again once more, cloudy, disparate, phantasmic, yet offering fragmentary glimpses into living possibilities or just-about-there versions of them.
I do not know if I will recapture exactly what it is I need.
Rambling around streets blessed by incredible angels, who tip-toe just as we do into the twilight avenues in the attempt to go again as youthful pups might have done.
Basement curry echoes of the Krakow cathedral. Booze oozing out as sweat into the bowels, the headphase defined by paneer cubes, shovelled up in giant portions.
Eternal sweetness of evening buffets. Tranquil music piped in low. Rehash of destructive moments that chime increasingly less real. I barely know exactly the essence that I lost before I truly understood how good it was to hold briefly.
Sharp feelings multiply through the evening city's shining streets. This is where underlying grievances and flash-flood memories bubble up, driven by fading but still-there spirits and broken slumber.
All past scenarios seem tangible. The poignancy of the narrow paths and indomitable European palaces enlivens an excruciating romanticism, as the gloom increases and brings out the illuminations. I sink into those feelings again.
Early summer aroma. Dusk park. Sense of lost adventures, goldenness of tram silhouettes. Years rattling past. Other times rolling through. The sadness palpable in the familiar park, where forgotten aspirations twang.
© Copyright 2022 John Maher