He was once considered a great man of sorts. Someone you could actually look up to possibly on a day of sobriety. “On a jiggle jaggle morning” he’ll come following you just to prove that he was a man of his word or words to that effect. On one side there was a profound and significant sense of self indulgence but on the other side of the spectrum, the one that few were able, if lucky to observe or key into, there was a helpless romantic, a brutally honest man that was willing to give without any thought of reward. An angel endowed with a halo of tragedy of sorts. The one ring to rule them all, the one ring to find them. The one ring to bring them all and in the darkness binds them, or something to that effect.
He was always faced with these conflicts in life but his favourite, his absolute life’s work, had always been the battle between the sexes in his pseudo adopted country. He loved women. He had all their albums. And so continuous is his purgatory derivative of his attraction to the female species. A continuous loop of a fool’s errand if it must be said. Women, from the beginning and until this very day, are the most amazing creatures to him. However, it might have been the rest of the world that he had a problem corresponding with. He would always seem to others to be submersed in a wayward sense of self-disgust, a complete sense of self-loathing if you will, but he was truly, beyond any doubt, never unhappy. His life was to be his never ending entertainment and amusement as it were. Gods continuing lassitude perhaps or the devil “because you know there is no devil, that’s just God when he is drunk,” as a songwriter once wrote.
Consequently, black was his favourite colour but he would always tell, when faced with the public, that it was blue because at the very least, in an existential wisdomic way, blue had much more of a level of sadness and depth to it. Would you, “the reader,” agree?
To be continued with – “he doesn’t know what to say to nice girls anymore……”