Am I at odds to all my peers who stay
Out late, resisting the daily-drone of
Toil, tasks, and tedium, in favour of
A single, solitary moment of infinity –
From those who neglect the quotidian
Struggle to make something of circumstance
And instead, seek license from intoxicants
To sanction actions which, in the clear-headed
Logic of day, they would never dream of enacting?
Is there something fundamentally different
Between them and I, which stops me from
Relishing the rum-tum rubato of the night –
A missing gene perhaps, the absence of which
Prevents me from becoming enveloped in the
Immediate, absolved of all anxieties as the camera
Slows to a stasis, immobile in the instant,
Capturing a drunken, blissful fragment of an evening
Part of an otherwise chaotic whole?
No. – I don’t think I am alone in my incongruity
To this environment;
But maybe I just haven’t drunk enough.
C. D. Jones
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.