Conversations

Conversations

The morning sky brooded gray with the dim sun filtering through deep flecks of silver and gray. The clouds drifted along the wide expanse causing rivulets of blue speckled with gold to shine intermittently down on the green spread of the park.
Green benches dotted the park and on the one with the paint peeling off sat Morris. He was dressed for the weather in blue jacket and black jumper and trousers. He sat quietly waiting for her to come and sit beside him.
It was a daily morning ritual on Sundays. They would sit and talk sipping hot coffee from the flask she always brought with her.
She was on time as usual her face slightly puffed from oversleep.
“So how was the week?”, it was a ritual, she would always follow.
“FINE…!”
“How so…?”, she asked referring to the fact that he always complained about his life.
“Dark…., he changed tack…very dark…”
He could sense her curiosity.
“Razor blades of conversations… imploding, exploding…
“Again…”, she said.
“Fragments of light shone through…infinitesimal flashes vanishing before I could capture them through the maelstrom of conversations but…the dark energy of these conversations defied escape and seeking of light turned to abandonment to dark…”
She looked at him serenely…. Listening.
“Imagination can take you anywhere”, she said.
“Imagination and reality mingle but what happens…”
She patted his hand. She reminded him of his mother who had seen a writer in him
In his better days he had been a writer. A failed one but a writer nonetheless.
“I’ve written a poem.”
She read his poem. It was the same one he had shown her last week but she seemed not to mind.
“Its good…good”.
She had said the same thing last week.
However he swelled with momentary pride and his buckteeth broke into a cigarette stained smile. He beamed at her not noticing her florid figure, her heavy face and dark ringed eyes. To him she was beautiful, had always seemed from the day when she had once casually slipped seating herself on the bench beside him offering him a soiled packet of peanuts. He knew she lived alone and worked at a publisher. Had a young son who was studying in another city. He had been happy to find out about her life, offering her tidbits from his own.
“Its dark …your poem I mean”, she offered sounding kind.
“Life is dark…dark. …”, he pontificated in deeply troubled tones.
“Not for them that are happy”, she said.
“I’m happy…when you are here”, he tried to charm her.
He was happy he thought, with their sexless encounters that bordered drifting conversations meanderings to sums of nothing.
He sipped the coffee she had carefully poured out for him
“Them that are happy…”,she said again
“I’m happy…”, he stressed.
“You’re a bundle of contradictions you are…she said. When you are seeing your life darkly then how can you be happy”?
“There are times when I’m happy…darkly happy but happy”.
“You cannot be darkly happy…” she countered.
“Yes you can”.
“What’s dark about me…?”she changed track.
“Everybody has a dark side” , he said trying to evade her probing.
“I’m a sunny person”, she countered..
“I’m happy too…A happy life…a happy death…”
“Camus?”she questioned
“What…? What do I know…I’m just an odd jobs man”, he reminded her glumly
“A writer doing odd jobs…”,she said.
He laughed…A feeling of quiet happiness crept up slowly within him, a feeling of well being. ‘Conversations were odd things, he thought, with some darkly difficult to handle with another a dancing flame of light that didn’t evade capture.’

Conversations

taraa

Noida, India

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Artist's Description

Bit about life passing u by but very short read and identifiable

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life

Artwork Comments

  • taraa
  • Jo O'Brien
  • Lehane
  • taraa
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