The Eye of the Storm

Baltimore has always been an ugly city. No. That's not true. A dark city draped in sorrow and regret of the men unfortunate enough to occupy it. I'm sorry, that's not true either. Well to some degree that is a lie. Perhaps it is fair to say that where we live isn't relevant, rather our perceptions of that around us. Stick a happy French man in Waterloo and he'll tell you the scorched Earth is optimal for the regrowth of a new generation of flowers, perhaps he'll even sell them. Perhaps a seemingly poor situation could lead to great wealth, in both pocket and mind. Stick a sad man in the Garden of Eden and he'll tell you how dull the shades of evergreen are. He will be inspired to commit sin. Perhaps ignorance is bliss, perhaps knowledge is a curse. This is something I have never understood. I have always been a discontent man, indeed many branded me crazy. Why? Is crazy to be different? Radical... honest? Maybe I'm not the crazy one. I was forged in darkness, moulded by its ever stretching shadows from the moment of my inception, my darkness is not a product of insanity, indeed it is a product of sanity itself. That's right! The ability to see the world as it is, regardless of positive or negative bias, men who affiliate with either philosophy are horribly misguided. Indeed, in all my arrogance, it is me who is the sane one, me who views the world as it is, darkness. Do I embrace my sanity? Heavens no! I wish to purge it, to rid myself of its purity and sense, to join the plagued and the decaying on their short, misguided journey. Is this the end of the line? I digress.

"Are you alright there my friend?"

"I'm sorry?"

"You seemed to trail off for a second. A bit sleepy at this hour are we? Or could it be... ah, alcohol, truly nature's greatest gift."

"Indeed." I nodded "Alcohol is a gift from the heavens above Edgar, it may leave the marks of a poison, but indeed it rids us of that very substance we seek."

"That's the magic of it."

My attention turned to my palms, they were unusually perspired, even by my lofty standards. But an instant had gone by. Oh my! My dearest apologies! Were it a normal person, they surely would never have figured my hesitation, my thoughts entrancing my body and soul, albeit for but a moment. But Edgar was no normal person, no, in even our mere five days of knowing one another Edgar was able to pierce my very soul via one, solitary blue reflected upon his brown. Edgar knew my thoughts better than anyone, indeed he shared those very thoughts, and I glanced back into his eye. He knew this too, and he was scared.

Edgar was not a handsome man, scruffy looking and poorly kept to say the least, his thick moustache was grown in vain of disguising his large, protruding nose which despite its unsightly appearance gave him a small, everlasting smirk on his face, as if a poor guise to mask his true nature. His jet black hair seemed clean enough yet grew in all directions, protruding at odd angles from his skull. Beauty is skin deep, as is its counterpart. Edgar's appearance did not matter, in fact I almost needn't tell you for any other reason than your mere curiosity. Edgar's eyes, however, bore great significance. Am I a hypocrite? HA! I laugh at your claims! The eye is the window into the human soul, my friend. The content of one's character, beliefs, convictions... in essence the TRUE nature of humanity, the mask of society unwillingly stripped off its fragile host. Yes.

Perhaps the eye is more than that...

No, that is all. Therein lies my reasoning, I hate Edgar, I hate his very being.

Is this a poor joke? How can a man like yourself... in all of your arrogance, your perceived enlightenment as opposed to those around you... how can a man with eyes... be so helplessly blind?

I am blind? Perhaps it is you who cannot see!

Perhaps we are both blind.

The bar where Edgar and I conversed over gin was nothing special or of note. As I said before, Baltimore is a town where men drink away their sorrows. A poorly lit room, the bar's dull yellow lighting mixed with shades of brown and orange only underscored the thoughts of the poor souls who so often sought the pestilent room as a solace from a darker world around them. A solitary table ensured that troubled men were kept close enough, yet they couldn't be more distant. Finding companionship in tears and heartache is not companionship at all, merely a poor guise for men to feel sorry for themselves. In all our strength and resilience, we cannot find the courage to confront our own demons. When a man seeks to comfort his fellow man, in reality it is for his own benefit, the only way he knows how to medicate himself.