One of his favourite writers once opined: ‘A movie in the middle of the day is like playing hooky on your life.’ It always felt that way; nestled in warm comforting darkness and the blanketing feel of another writer’s vision made flesh.
Plunged into a dirge. A dark dirty rain washed mood swing that enveloped him with all the bone chilling cold of a January afternoon. The romance, up on screen, had been fairy-tale in it’s romantic intensity. Two (literally) star-crossed lovers falling, then living that love. It stirred his tumultuous organs, plucked at his heartstrings with the musical dexterity of dive bar picker.
Dormant heartbreak. Tears. A funk he seemed doomed to be held in thrall of, dominated the remainder of the day. The weekend offered little solace. Lost in alcohol – so that leaden unconsciousness take him roughly in her arms, when bedtime beckoned. Dreams of snowdrifts, frozen Michigan asphalt and spiced wheat beer echoed through the night psyche. Lonely in the company of his love, while thinking only of his other greater one.
Darkgingerbread 