He would wonder often if it was just something inside of himself. Something that ate away at bits and parts that made him feel, above all things, that he was alone in this world. Dementia may be of the mind, and cancer may be of the body, but what is the soul without both mind and body? Is a soul inherently sick if it chooses to go left instead of right? To take the unbeaten path that it knows, and therefore so does he, will end in his demise? Is the soul some grand consciousness, or is it some sortof religious concept?
Alex didn’t know. And because he didn’t know, he sat. And wondered.Click here to Read More
On older, yellow-colored days, fountains of pain poured from his body in rivets, unseen, but he could feel them all. Those were the days of heavy drinking, steeped in the thighs of random strangers, and today…felt like it had been before. In those days of yellow. Not yellow in the sense that they were bright and full of life, like the vibrating sun over a cyan sky. No, yellow in the sense of a pit stain in the crux of a white t-shirt. Yellow in the sense that skin turned jaundice when someone was physically ill. Perhaps a faded photograph, perhaps a tea stain on something nice.
The man had yellow hair as well, and as a hand ran through it, he realized he was back in the same place he had been years ago. Brown paper bag in his hand, a bottle of vodka within that paper bag–it clinked, the liquid swishing. Alex inhaled his cigarette and pushed it out onto the side of the bench he sat at. In broad daylight. With that fucking bag. The paper crinkled in his grasp and his eyes, red from whatever hell he was trying to fight out of, closed in a solemn realization.
This was what a sickness of the soul felt like. In despair, the soul cried out for a release. The soul was no different than a combination of the body and the mind–a sense of being. ID, Ego, and all that Freudian jabber he often said was a bunch of shit. But it somehow wasn’t. Tired, red-eyed, and sick to the core of his soul, he pressed the bottle to his lips.
In some way, it was a blessing that a little girl in red hopped past him, her mother’s hand in her own small grasp. He stopped, staring at her as she leapt. All the joy in life and all the wonder of a life not yet tarnished, flitting past him like a bird. And that chirp–the laughter. God, he would’ve loved the laughter, to laugh like that bird, as she bounced on her heels, light-up sneakers blazing neons on the pavement.
He was a shade of putrid yellow, sitting perfectly still. The vodka passed his lips. She was red, and all shades of light and joy. A disease can be cured. A disease can be cured. A disease can be cured.
Al spit out the vodka into the bottle and set the bag beside himself, on that stark bench, as the girl was long out of sight.
A disease of the soul, it can be cured.
You just need to want it bad enough.