Companionship in Solidarity

Walking through a park, a sorrowful reflection is made on loneliness when met with a young couple.

A bitter silence makes presence in the Azaleas. An eeriness that removes the joy in solidarity, where the final semblance of self is hidden, amidst the cacophony of noise that makes each moment. The sound is eternally present in the state of incessantly buzzing white noise or the perdition of influence. But it’s gone now, and the lack of familiarity is discomforting.

The Azaleas are placid and varied. From an vanilla color to a bright tangerine. Superficial and scentless. But I suppose the bees use the pollen, so it’s existence is not questioned. 

I continue along the gravel trail. 

I see a couple holding hands. The woman dons a Burberry coat, in the trademark tartan and the word written in bold on the back. It is almost amusing. She has a slim build, petite and light. Wearing a black pleated mini skirt beneath the coat and a pair of high heels. I rarely insult anymore, and the humor has fled, so all that remains is the pity. 

Pity. 

It is not of self. I stand alone, not knowing the pleasure of companionship nor quality of confidence, but I hold no obligation for other. She, who’s flamboyant existence is purely for the sake of others will always remain dependent and feeble. She must always remain in acceptable form, embodying superficial perfection, but a shallow character. 

Perhaps, she has it better. Never needing to learn the attribute of diligence nor self dependence. Never harboring a hatred of self nor ownership of fault. 

Perhaps, it is the painless trail, the path often wandered, but failing to exude the brilliance of originality. 

My eyes drift to the water.  It’s pretty, even flawed by algae. The algae is worrisome though. Threatening to take over with the slight release of nitrogen. 

The reflection of the Magnolia Tree in the pond makes the Azaleas seem insignificant as the sweet scent drifts through the cool and humid spring air. 

The couple have walked to the opposite site of the pond, and I let my gaze rest. I don’t want to seem a creep. 

Solitude is a teacher, bestowing the cold and callous, but gifting strength and thought. Delaying the inevitable sinking into the quicksand of mundane time. But souls fizzle out when met with the freezing embrace before they can enter the hearth, unable to withstand the maudlin sorrow.

The pond has a layer of grime on the surface. Dust and the dead. But the water looks cool. It is odd, but I feel an urge to touch whenever I see water.  I suppose I want to experience the wetness, to be brought back to the present, and a proof of livelihood. I dare not touch it today though. 

When locked within the Arctic Icebox, all desire is stifled. Consciousness is preserved and approaches the Gardens of Eden where all is lost or transcended beyond self. Where the cacophony is distant and forgotten, and silence is the bringer of life. 

And if the the gamble is won, thought is elevated and understood only by the likes of Solomon. But to lose is to fall not within the freezing slush of gluttony, but rather, frozen in the lake of treachery with the likes of Judas and Brutus as companions, but it seems the same hell, the same torturous ache, since comparison is lacking. 

Perception of pain is parallel though reality is not, and she and I are the same, no matter the belittling scorn or envy. 

Author's Note

I haven’t wrote in 4 months, as an result, my writing ability has declined. I hope it is enjoyable all the same. I also came to an realization that my stories could be classified as prose poems.