“Rome is burning, and the ashes makes me cough.”
The last sentence on the eulogy to his youth was written. He poured himself another glass of wine, and could almost smell the bitter smell of kerosine from teenage pranks, the sweet taste of women’s lips during adolescence. The meticulously written statement was a testament to what a man passing into adulthood wanted to remember rather than what had occurred. It was like an old man saying “when i was young…”. Nothing more than one mans dream of having a youth living up to the ridiculous standards set by parents stories of conquests and adventures. As he sank deeper into the leather chair he contemplated adulthood, its few perks, and its many responsibilities. He swiftly decided that it was to be procrastinated at all costs. The immense power of nostalgia and psychological comfort was not given up easily, especially for one as self-loathing as himself. Perhaps the fault in the previous generation was not in the infatuation with lady majority in itself, but forcing themselves into her, instead of letting her envelop them. Or perhaps he simply could not see that his faults where merely reflected in his stars, his unwillingness to look into himself the only thing keeping him from recognition.
Posted on Saturday, 13 June 2009
