The Surreal Vision of My Friend the Spear
It was late night in the Jazz bar in downtown Aalter. I was sitting at a table by the staircase, looking at the lovely-looking barmaid from time to time. The bar was luminous and vibrant, and surrounded by the darkness of night. Protected from the cold, a stronghold in the storm where the common troubadour travels through, on the wings of self-awareness. Out in the harsh and lonely vacuum of lost romance, wearing a coat of despair and a small necklace of hope.
I drank from my coke and peaked through the room with gentle, easy-going eyes. Strangers came in and went their way. I went outside to have a cigarette and a black woman left the building. She was kind enough to greet me, and went on her way.
That is what it is in life. That jazz bar in Aalter is a scale representation of life. People come and go, some will stay in your lives, others will only remain brief encounters and others will stab you in the back as a thief in the night. I had to think about that sweet little girl that had left me weeks prior. I was over her, but felt isolated and left alone as a stray cat.
Do I miss her? Not really, no. She was a Judas-like figure. I would have washed her feet if she asked me too, enchanted with her as I was. But she planted a spear in the side of my chest.
But she drifted from my mind, eventually. I couldn’t care less about that fearsome ghost of my past. So I began to think of my new love interest. Oh baby, was she a sweet, sweet girl. But one thing kept my away from my feelings. I was stuck in limbo. What is the way to go? At which point should I stop to take a well-deserved rest? Am I right or am I wrong?
Both probably.
But as long as I do not give up hope, I won’t wear my coat of despair no more. I am free from the burden. I am free, and love may be just around the corner, looking at me from the corners of deep blue eyes.
But it could also be far away.
It drove me nuts, I have to admit that. There were so many things to think of that particular night.
Love.
Anger, disappointment.
Disillusioned with the world.
Desire.
Her lips,
eyes and face.
Oh Lord, have mercy on my tortured soul.
I got up, took my coat, and threw a last gaze at the pretty blonde-haired waitress. My eyes fell upon a painting at the wall behind me. It depicted the trials of Christ by the hand of Pontius Pilatus. And what did I see at the side of Christ? My friend the spear.
Copyright © Damon De Ryckere | Year Posted 2016
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