Corner Lounge
Hottfest 3, i.e. a
bass drum through the heart, snare drum splitting eardrums, guitar strings
resonating same as the fibers of my heart
sweat dripping down dancing bodies, each soul in the room animated with the
spirit
of that demon called Music. There was no lounging to be had in that corner of the
earth,
however, and when I but stepped outside
I was a world away, returned to my home of desolate buildings and solitude, of
pious reverence of the sun, moon, and stars,
the change heightened through contrast as though a leap from a cliff. How fitting,
then,
that I should decide to stop by the used bookstore on the way home, and go
rummaging through bins of forgotten books, free for the taking,
until my hands should grasp one titled Desolation Angels.
To find a book whose very title matched the desolation I felt that night more
strongly than ever
at first seemed a function of chance. Later, however, I imagined that an angel
had indeed
delivered it into my arms. But now I wonder –
is it not possible that
every birth, every death, every life intervening, every rising and setting of the sun,
every story of conquest written in the blood of the innocent, every
change in the seasons, every first frost, every new flag hoisted above the
timeless earth, every
blade of grass that peeks its head above the soil, every smile, every new face,
every teardrop, every milestone marked by mankind in its relentless forward
march,
buried in the dust of time, forgotten, at last returned to the void,
every old friendship, every new lover, every laugh, every kiss, every
moment spent in the company of those we love, or silently alone,
happens by chance, and for a reason?
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