I was digging my heels into the dirt. The unstoppable police bodily pulling me anyway, steadily, as though my efforts had no effect. Of course, they didn't. No one wins here at this club. I kept telling the patrons around me that I did not belong there. They said nothing, probably because they knew I was wrong. They did it too, or will in their own way.
With anger and bitterness, I want to show them. Deep down, I know that I am no match. I internally slap myself for even letting myself think about worthless things. Grow up, really, and a lot. Who am I? I'm 24, running the ups and downs of Winter Street on a crisp and frosty October Saturday morning. I got this. But to show the impervious nature of how I roll, I slam myself down on the hood of that one 1980 Datsun 310GX. The message was missed; however, they made it about me, not the car. Oh well. I still have a thousand years.
Years later, I run the two miles at Morningside, again defiantly lighting a cigarette during the last half mile. There are no rules about this. This does nothing but say how foolish I am. The older men know that my time is going to come, and no matter what, I cannot outrun it. No one does.
I have defied the setting sun and the turning of seasons with great enthusiasm, but there is strength in the wisdom of understanding what is immovable. I, of all people, should know this. From the Thursday nights up on the hill all the way back in 1988 to this day, the physics are the same. I am exchanging my cards, staying in the game, and not leaving the table.
Forgive me for my oversight. I kept singing "Forever Tuesday" and perhaps even "Peak Hour." Oddly, when I was there, I smiled and shook my head, acknowledged, and then did not care. The waste, oh the waste with which I have lived. Youth could be many things, but shackles are not what I saw.
Evening falls, and echoes of the day begin their translation. Some of them are bold, while others are not. Realizing that you've won, but winning doesn't feel like a win when you have been fighting yourself. I have cried under the efforts of my toiling and for the things that others said I should have.
Seeing where I am really does no damage because, of course, the damage is done. Just live, and just do, because the evening is advancing and there is nowhere to run. I want those in my house to thrive, so I advise and intervene, and it never has the intended outcome, and I should remember why. I lift my glass, declare with deep introspection, "Here is to all of you, who will not hear me. Here are the most important things I can never repeat. Here is to the vacuum, and its twisted game. I want to say something irreverent because I feel fairly certain that it will transcend the boundaries of time itself.
It is a time of great change this evening, the time to get away. The evening feels like surrender when I always thought it would feel like justice. I was just floating on my little leaf, thinking it was so much more. I brought amusement, but not much else, to the party as I distracted the masses in their respective electric chairs.
There is a lot of time devoted to evening and its companions, and I should be good with that. Something stated but not spoken, but real for those of us who made it to this side of the canyon. I can have nothing but respect for all of it. The good old days were often mixed in with very obscure places in the earlier part of the day. I always expected to be told that this is what they were, but it turns out there is no such tour guide. The conclusion came about through storms. It was then that I knew where all of the gems were.
Evening time, you have been the most crafty part of the day so far, but I have a feeling that I have not seen anything yet.
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