On Sunday night the stars are sometimes so bright I can't see them. It usually happens somewhere between my Sunday arvo fever and the late night grooves that aren't there; when I brush my hair hoping something will actually happen.
Something or anything - it doesn't matter. Le Carré said "the cat sat on the dog's mat" is the beginning of a story and I wondered if he's right. Maybe when I'm all written out and my mind no longer fulfils the pen's needs I will write about a cat. But that is for another day, when all the little pieces of glass have shattered into a million more and Jack Johnson has stopped telling that girl "don't let your dreams be dreams". Which is a beautiful sentiment in itself, but I'm not really worried. Jack Johnson is married anyway and poets like him don't grow on trees.
The bookshop was still lovely today though not magical like the one in Freo. It had shelves like before, filled with works that aren't mine, and a guy from uni with a funny tremble in his voice. Somehow, reading without purpose other than that of creativity is a harsh process. To notice the sentiments and the words and the brilliance, all with the eloquent stamp of "published". Where are my words? I refuse to accept that they are lost or out on some limb in my body that I am not aware of and won't be aware of again.
On the table next to mine sit invisible people who used to be tangible but somehow got lost inside my mind. The hat with a feather from South Africa, where the bartender is from, and an argument that was mine to play out. I wonder if they got left by choice or if the doorman kicked them out for being too tangible.
Perhaps they were never there and always existed as things only real in my wild and loose imagination. Or maybe I need to go treasure hunting to find them again, in between the laughter I'm pretty sure is going to out-compete mine.
The walls are black but the mirror sparkles and I'm not even halfway through my drink. Yet.
But wait! A sentiment, a whisper, like the dream that was Rome in Gladiator, of something that may be. It tingles within me and perhaps even when the stars are shining bright in the evening sky we can finally see, something might actually happen. On a Sunday, maybe. I sit still; tired alcohol mixes and the paint strokes are mere paint strokes and not waves... Here we go again.
There is a story that needs to be told and just like the chandelier in the mirror I know it's somewhere inside my mind. That place or which I don't know - no clue at all, and Mr. Pugh's voice rings in my ears: I mustn't stop writing because I'm good at it. I wonder if Mr. Pugh knew that the pen runs out of ink even in the good writer's mind; the bottle openers stop functioning and the cocktails mix themselves and there is nothing special about them anymore. It all becomes boring and dry like that tutor who tries to be the teacher but is really just the student. Nothing wrong with that, he's just being his best, which isn't much at all.
Perhaps the story is somewhere inside all the colours the light makes over my head reflecting on the cranberry red drink I have in front of me. It stands untouched, for the most part, as my eyes wander towards the bar I can't really see through the wall behind that blurry, liquid thing.