“What a gruesome dawn to dark! Sometimes I really get the feeling of just quitting it all but ..”
The sol was slowly, racing against the sand in the hourglass, taking refuge behind the statuesque broadcast tower in the west. The belfry sky-high and majestic tearing through the clouds, a state of the art landmark of the burghal, an abode for thousands of feathered creature. This metropolitan which is always in the rush hour, a city with unified heartbeat, a million hopes. Crayon City I name. But the pastel seems to fade away as the days pass.
The weekend had arrived, a savior in disguise. It was November, a slow transition between the dull autumn and the void wintertide. The freezing south west zephyr blasting against the window to my six, creating impressions of frost against the sill. A static white noise, probably from a damaged monitor, was echoing in the empty department hall. An eerie of roo, with me imprisoned by the devil “Overtime”.
It was near bewitching hour, when I was finally stacking the dossiers and affidavits in my briefcase before I was disenthralled from the shackles of drudgery, to merge with the nightfall. The empyrean was engulfed by a hypnotizing prussian shade, there was no moon, just the streetlights guiding me. The radio inside the car was playing William Hanks, and my mind was stormed with cacoethes. Instead of returning back to my deserted condominium, I decided to abscond for the colloquial and vanilla point in the city. Located in central downtown, which some might refer to as a humdrum niche, was the pub named as “The Pub”. Simple and to-its purpose name surely attracted a lot of night dwellers including those who label themselves as “heartbroken”. The road to “The Pub” was dernier cri. Half of the city considered the pub over the broadcast tower to be the centerfold attraction of the city. It was nearly two in the morning when i arrived at the pub. Considering the parking lot view, one wouldn’t intercept the clock to be hitting that late but its a pub we are talking about here.
I walked inside into a comess, the hall-room was lit by a cerulean , probably cyanic light emitted by a LED source at the far north side of the bar. Constellates occupied seats like marking their territory in the room. I felt the uneasy feeling of having eyes on as I was comparatively new to the place, however non of them had comminatory inclination on me. My possession at that point of time included some chump change, a wristwatch and a briefcase of papers, probably the perfect description of a man who often finds his peace in the pub. In the canorous melody of the trumpet music, I could sketch cantillat-humming voices and laughters induced by boffolas. Pub is the only place where you can debate on any topic known to man.
I subsided slowly to the bar, placed myself on the ottoman, which clearly felt coriaceous. Drowned in the violence of barmecide thoughts and body ache, the place felt couthy. I asked the bartender to get me a goblet of bumbo. Half-way through the drink, this English man came up and took a seat right beside me. He was tall, probably in his late sixties, had a brobdingnagian physique and a breatharain attitude according to me, with burnsides marking his standout facial features.
“You don’t look Irish to me! Why are you here lad?”,a stern, precarious yet eloquent voice breaks my glance from my half empty glass. (In this part of the country, Irish are referred to those folks who often indulge in drinking)
“Just felt like paying a visit, what about you?”, my tone shattering and pausing.
“I am here to observe. Tell me what do you see in this mirror?”, interrogating he pulled out a hand-held mirror from his jacket pocket, pretty antic it seemed, with a cupreous frame and extended it to me.
“My reflection. Why?”, my reply poisoned with vexation, I could clearly depict him to be a criticaster, probably even a con.
“Do you know what I see? I see life. I see change. I see who I am today and how different I am from yesterday and what I can be tomorrow. I see a revolution.I see a transition. It’s all within us bud, just need to discover it. Now, let us also enjoy the pub-life like all these young perplexed man here, shall we?”, he called out to the bartender in his unique stalemate voice, with me left awestruck, still trying to interpret the chain of events that unfolded in front of me.
“Yes sir, what may I get you?”, the bartender asks in the mechanical tone