Too Many Mornings

There have been too many mornings when I wake up, not with a start or a with a spring in my step, but with a gradual opening of my eyes, my lids rising like curtains upon a stage, the slight hum in my hung-over head akin to the anticipation of an orchestra to fill in the silence with music. It's a pleasant, still place. The serenity of such mornings is a halcyon, memory-less place. It actually isn't so bad once the memories come rushing back. They may be somewhat agonising to confront, but at least they exist on a plane that is neither corporeal nor astral, but somewhere in the middle: this place that I like to call The Tip of the Pi Orbital. So, yes there may have been martini glasses, and the fact that someone may have launched into an initially mocking but ultimately naked (emotionally) rendition of 'Losing my Mind' while holding said martini; there may have been awkward confessions that seemed like sound ideas at the time but now have become the loss of yet another layer of your carefully plumed persona; there may have been merriment that has now become judgment; there may have been that long walk home where you and your friends reflected on the respective roads that you didn't (or, couldn't take); there may have been that ill-advised text that you shouldn't have answered; there may have been a long treatise on "shallow love" on a packed dance-floor that may have made you realise how empty your life truly is. None of that matters right now. None of that hurts as one lies curled up at The Tip of the Pi Orbital. At this point of time, you're not even reflecting: you're watching. You're watching yourself become a moment's ornament. You're watching yourself become someone's bon mot and someone else's rebuke. You're watching yourself go from effusive and witty to bitchy and broken. With every descending degree of the latter, you reveal more and more, slowly forgetting that sometimes, when all the wrappings fall, there's nothing underneath at all. When one wants to be in fashion while moulding oneself into what others expect, revealing too much is risky business. You promise yourself that the next time you'll be different: you'll be brittle, you'll be debonair, you'll only drink a little and then forswear. But yet, too many mornings...too many mornings...is this the cost of reinventing oneself? Have I been so vile for nothing?

I remain,

GossipGuy.