The Cynic

Bottles and bright lights bring out the hermit in a man. Explains why my avenue of retreat upon indulging in gluttonous drink always involved slinking into dim-lit alleyways with broken streetlights, or uncharted territories on the outskirts of the city which lingered under-furnished with hardly a defined pavement let alone posted lamps. Honestly, one of these days my alcohol induced antipathy for civilization would become misfortune. In not that past my drunken intoxication was I in an amiable or hospitable mood. Reduced to impulsively pensive nothingness, nebulous infantile thoughts brought on by the most menial occurrences. And in my mind I always thought myself Diogenes the Cynic, degenerate in my uncouth outlook, yet novel in my approach to the metaphysical and philosophical. Yet if confidence be the limiting factor, amidst the dark expanse I sought for myself, and the temporary courage the bottle bequeathed me I was truly invincible.

And by chance I stumbled upon one of those dilapidated old outskirt roads, equal part dirt-road and ruin, and a sudden intrusive presence of an abandoned bus-stop introduced itself upon my flushed nose, readily reddened. Disorientated and unsure-footed, the recourse of my beleaguered mind was to regain some semblance of composure upon the weathered bench conveniently, yet admittedly obviously, placed next to the sign. Yet upon collapsing upon the expected planks it was not wood I encountered, but the muffled grunts of a perturbed voice. And in that solitary moment of self-consciousness from an otherwise purely indulgent night, I was instantly transferred back to a state of panic-ridden sobriety at the outset of my boorish actions in the face of another individual only longing for their own reprieve. How pretentious of me. To assume that the mellowed strolls through dim-light, were mine and mine alone, not in my alcoholic languor considering that my reprieve was an intrusion upon other's solitude. A folly to seek the sparse urban. Yet in the tense moment of self-abasing repentance, acutely expectant of unbridled vitriol, that I would so readily administer to such perpetrators of my wrongdoing, the night did not cease of quiescence, only now I was aware of the rhythmic lung contortions which I had prior mistaken for city ambiance. Evidently the man beside me was under the influence of substances much more potent than mine. I could never fully commit. Yet in this moment I was thankful for his initiative, as I slumped over into an exhausted comfortable crumpled pile of a man and conscious, next to a man comfortable in his repose of escapism.

So I just sat there, slumped head in hands with him crumpled in a pile, quite the sight at an isolated bus stop. The shock of a chance encounter had ensured that my prior feckless state was utterly eroded, yet to me the scene felt oddly serene, and the tranquil calm formerly beknownst to me only as a state of intoxication queerly persisted despite the intrusion. But I was no longer Diogenes, I could mimic not his humility, charisma or pointed cynicism. No. I was the idealist, the hope of humanity, as hope in humanity, and in the eyes of the unconscious I found my counterpart, a haggard old man replacing barrel for bench.

I presented the question, 'What is the nature of your scepticism, where lies your faith', but the silence of contempt counteracted my message.

Again I implored, 'Am I so below you as to not warrant an answer, is the beggar so high brow as to only attend to a King'.

This time the cynic's eyes fluttered open for a solid dozen seconds, transfixed upon an abyss, his glazed gaze a clear indicator for his regard of my remarks. His dreamy stolid demeanour, as good a reply of apathy as any.

With wavering conviction of my impulsive ideals, yet strangely imbued by a wanton yearning for acknowledgement for an impromptu yet formidable adversary, in a symbiosis of desperation, passion and wroth I laid claim, ' If my my words weigh feathers say so, if my foundations lay rotted say so, if my rhetoric is misconstrued, and the intent of progression for humanity as a whole presents folly, then I plead bestow your opinion upon-'

And with a sudden colossal heave from the mass of flesh before me, accompanied by a strained creak from the wooden bench with its capacity stretched taut, the cynic turned over in his slumber and as readjusting his position administered a sonorous exhale as response to my polemic.

And with that I was defeated and resigned to my native state. No alcohol, no confidence, no sanctuary. Once again only myself as an ally. After a while of nothing I ventured another glance at my now-familiar neighbour. I wish I were a deep sleeper. For a cynic he may be once imbued with vitality of daylight and vigour, yet now in my sobriety, with illusions torn asunder, for the first time since our introduction the image of a homeless lurker filled my vision. And how blissful he was in his sleep. Ironic how with a roof over my head and feathers beneath my neck, I could never hope to reach that plateau of comfort. Further and further my innocuous pondering developed from fledgling understanding, to solidified acceptance of the hypocrisy, until finally crystallising into futile longing. For in many ways it felt as if I was ordained too far gone by factors entirely out of my own volition, with the emergence of this outlook definitively burying any prospects of approaching its exit. In documenting the existence of what I christened 'unknowing bliss' I had rejected it.

'And by what right?', I uttered, in absolute antithesis to the philosophy I so desperately wanted to partake in, antipathy rising in wanton resentment at spurned advances at apathy.

'By what right is acceptance befuddled by birthright', honestly quite juvenile, reproaching the homeless man for a hereditary status. In extraordinary bad taste by my own admittedly low standards.

Yet in this moment the issue was not material, as all that separated us two individuals at this bus stop in our delirium was our respective mind-states. And how could I be at peace knowing what I knew the way that I was taught, and seeing what I saw through a superimposed subjective lens.

Both products of our environment, but while it had granted my compatriot tonight (might be morn by now) the philosophical sanctimony of 'unknowing bliss', it now seems I was predetermined to languish in discontent in the name of societal standards. Efficiency if you will. My chance at open-mindedness was soiled by the prejudice of morality, ethics plagued every group I approached, the measure of man was determined by economics before I learnt how to count, until the status of man was to be discerned by imprinted internalities. Inscribed with expectation, how could I read into anything more than the allocated answers forming my predisposition. I memorised the equation but not the understanding, and if I did I might have broken down in the face of its ignominy. Thus only staring into the blank slate could I comprehend that I am the victim of methodology, a false prophet and courier of an erroneous school of thought, yet too far gone to seek salvation in anything more than self-deprecating pleas at moral clemency, too impounded in indoctrination to achieve emancipation. And ultimately resigned to it. Unconditionally. Ironically unknowingly. I had become a slave to the visage of knowledge.

The stages of grief, I had forgotten them to be candid, I had never felt poignant loss and through apparent doublethink I guess I had never associated emotion in regards to the theoretical. However I was quite sure that somewhere after loss came denial, which had been my modus operandi for so long that to diverge from it felt sacrilegious, but in this moment I barged sinfully past. Then perchance occurred grief, and tonight I had felt the losses of what I never held. So abstract yet shapeless, a piercing attack without the point, I was enveloped by absence cowering in its omnipresence. Transformed into a believer of the fear of the undefined, a single absent point holds everything, mocks us in words we cannot know, only then I felt grief for a sphere I could never reach. But at the end of the road lies acceptance. And perhaps after the mutilation of my mind, a respite is mercy. Would I accept if I was to forget, and to fall back into place to a cycle through convenience beset, for if you can't remember how can you forget. Perhaps in my own way I can be blissfully unknowing, relatively speaking, until the next sunset, wrapped in the white flag of defeat.