Episode one - No limes on Tatooine - A new hope
I’m drunk, but you’re beautiful,
a line I used to rehearse.
The Dreamers’ artistic longing felt noble,
but it came with a curse.
I bought the ticket when I didn’t know better from worse.
Now I’ve got a tale of rebellion,
and I’ll share it in verse,
it all changed one Star Wars Day,
when my thirst reversed.
May the Fourth, and I felt matured.
No Padawan—now Jedi Master,
just a little unmoored.
Met some friends inclined for chilled wine,
drinking enough to feel ruthlessly divine.
That hazy day, glazed in the usual sway.
That familiar vortex, melancholy perturbed.
Soles stained deeply by the absurd,
fermented grapes, chaos,
and the dark side assured.
The dark side calls as we sit with the thirst,
but Skywalker’s force starts thinking first:
“Unlearn what you have learned.”
Yoda’s wisdom, unrehearsed.
I needed a change, something absolute.
Had to break old habits
and reroute my pursuit.
Flip the script, exit the Aristotle loop.
We can still have fun.
Still embrace the absurd.
Someone said, “It’s Star Wars Day,”
and a spark then occurred.
We found a weird café,
celebrating in cosplay,
and somewhere in that moment,
a new hope was incurred.
Arriving at the venue, a little out of town, we found the clan,
Princess Leia sold us tickets on the door deadpan,
no droids allowed, no stormtroopers,
but there was a sandman,
Inside were Wookies at the bar, slamming shots like my mum can.
Han Solo in carbonite poster hanging on the wall,
Kids having lightsaber fights with bar stools, humming bishoooom loudly down the hall.
Glass cabinets with falcons and dioramas were neat.
Cantina soundtrack playing curiously on repeat,
Grabbed snacks, Empires on screen, so we found a seat.
We wandered deeper past merch and collector cases,
through aisles of toys and cosplayed faces.
The type of folk draw to these kind of conventions,
You know the type without me having to mention,
They filled the room with joy beyond pretension,
I watched them just be, and I wanted that,
but I found I had to be patient.
I don’t have to keep falling for the trap,
it’s not just escape, it must be more pure.
I lost a friend that day, and yeah, it’s still sore.
He bowed out—boozehound chasing the score,
while I found experience, absurdity, and something more secure.
Copyright © Paul Olivier | Year Posted 2025
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