Pride is a funny thing.
In the end, it is nothing but a word- a word that people would fight for, bleed for, die for. A silly concept, a heat in your chest, a thrum in your blood.
Two men, whose entire beings were ruled by this word, sat in an alley on opposite walls, winded and beaten but far from surrender. The heat from their fight was dying off and both were coming to realize their foolishness, their knuckles aching and their blood running red.
The shorter man looked at the Dutchman with a certain ferocity in his eyes, crimson liquid dripping down his unruly hair onto his forehead as he panted, catching his breath. “Disappointed again?”
It’s too easy.
Easy to get tired of getting dressed in the morning the same way. Shave, button up the shirt, lace up the boots, pull on the gloves.
It’s easy to feel disillusioned when you step outside every single day to pouring rain and grey skies, living in a town where it’s easier to get your fix than buy a bible.
The older I get, the more I’m convinced that things are as the poets say- you are born alone and you die alone, and everything in between is just a mess of coincidence and happenstance. Yesterday was mine, but tomorrow is up to chance. I’ve always hated gambling- at least when I’ve been the loser.
But I would bet on rain tomorrow, and the day after that, and the day after that. I open my window and realize my house is on the water, and the cold irony is that I will never escape from it. Maybe nothing in me is as solid as I thought- the more I question my own absolute truths, the more I realize I am bent out of shape, a stiff hypocrite, a bigot and a bitter man. I’ve stepped on you, used you, loved you and hated you all at the same time. You’ve been subjected to my judgement, the recipient of my hate and my disappointment, and worst of all the subject of my dreams.
It’s all to easy to try and tell myself that you are only some kind of coincidence. Every encounter we’ve had has just been a turn of happenstance. You are born alone and you die alone.
But at the end of the day, it’s hard to admit I’ve been wrong.
The sun beat down on my face, and there was not a cloud in sight.