An overwhelming feeling of not belonging
The Poet entered the room discretely from a back door, fully aware of the blank stares that would eventually hit him like a cold wind from the arctic. He was used to this after a lifetime in a sort of self-created parallel universe that mostly existed in his own mind. The great paradox was that as much as he wanted to be seen and loved, he also wanted to disappear into some kind of cosmic nothingness where everything would be ALRIGHT.
The room was occupied by executives in suits, carrying blackberries and iPads together with inflated egos and dreams about big bonuses and how they really belonged, and a few scattered musicians and couple of beautiful but cold-looking women of various ages and ethnic backgrounds. The whole scene could be lifted from a film noir, that is, if you photo-shopped out the 21-century gadgets.
The Poet had somehow managed to sneak in, in an attempt to “make connections” that he really didn’t want to make, but still so desperately needed. To him, the world consisted of mostly liars and sycophants, or more or less evil people that in a different setting could probably just as easily lead the battle of Stalingrad, and that he himself was always honest to the point of recklessness. More often than not he had been known to suffer from the foot-in-mouth disease.
“I always get this overwhelming feeling of not belonging”, the Poet said to himself as he helped himself to one of the multi colored free drinks that were being handed out by the dozen. “So, am I gonna get totally pissed and blow this, or should I at least make an effort to blend in” he thought, very aware that the former could send him to hell, suicide or worse, and that the latter would leave a bitter aftertaste later on, that not even Listerine would wash away. Wash your mouth with cheese, as the saying goes.
With these questions running around in his head, he almost fell over with surprise when one of the gorgeous looking women approached him and said: “I’ve been watching you play a few times, and tonight it’s you and me! These execs bore me to death. Sure they’ve got money, but you’ve got style. That sadness in your eyes is very attractive, and turns me on completely”.
Maybe the evening wasn’t a total failure? For a little while at least, he would belong somewhere…
“But hang on a minute the Poet thought, this isn’t why I came here! Nice as it sounds, and tempting as it is, it’s all fake anyway”. Thank God the booze hadn’t got to him yet, and that he was able to realize that this creature from Planet Terror was only out to annoy the shit out of her rich friends by shagging this elegantly wasted, going nowhere slowly, used to be rock star, before returning to money and comfort, somewhere in Richmond or Hampstead. Or in one of those river view flats near Canary Wharf. Canary Wolf more likely…
To be continued.
