A Hard Day's Night 1964, Directed By Richard Lester

A Hard Day's Night 1964, directed by Richard Lester

I sometimes wish people would unfollow me, unfriend me, and unsubscribe from me. I feel I don't deserve to have people listen to what I have to say. It's an uncomfortable privilege. 

Then again, I suppose I could think of worse privileges.

A Parody

"There is no truth, there is only pain."

Those words echoed in my brain like a broken record of a yodeler singing high in the Alps. The phrase sounds so profound, I thought to myself, therefore it must be true. Cigarette smoke blew from my nose as I let out a heavy sigh. I imagined myself to be some kind of pitiful dragon, realizing his impotence and lamenting his fire-breathing days. Wisps of the smoke curled in the light, and through the haze I looked on at my espresso being made.

The baristas were kind, but I noticed they were occasionally staring into the distance. It wasn't clear to me whether they were lost in their thoughts, or that they lost the capacity to think altogether.

As I glanced at their sunken eyes, their furrowed brows, and their pit-stained uniforms, I wondered if there was fault in any of this. Where had they gone wrong? Had they gone wrong at all? Were they simply a product of their generation, oblivious and complacent? Or perhaps I wasn't looking at the bigger picture. Maybe they were experiencing the symptoms of an aggressive, all-consuming society; one that was ready to swallow them whole if they so much as blinked. What an awful experience it must be to live on edge, I thought, always tired and scared.

"The double shot espresso is ready," the baristas called.

I nodded, putting out my cigarette as I went back up to the counter.

"You're not supposed to smoke in here," their once war-weary expression now looked on me with frustration, "now the place smells like whiskey, smoke, and pumpkin spice."

"Just like democracy," I muttered. I apologized curtly and paid for the order in Sacagawea coins.

Night falls

I often see myself  atop a lonely hill  upon an autumn evening.  Everything is still--  no birds, no traffic, no wind. I kneel in the earth  with my hands behind my back,  my head hanging low.  My posture becomes  a pitiful silhouette  against the sunset.  It is a deep, deep orange.  Another silhouette appears  and walks up behind me.  If I were genuflecting,  then he would be my priest,  presenting my last rites.  The sun slips in the horizon,  orange becomes red.  He pulls out the shotgun  and aims it at my head.  Night falls.

J: What a strange conversation we seem to be having.

Me: Perhaps, but it is an apt conversation amongst very strange people.

They might say: "He seems nice." They might mean: "Honestly, I found him to be a bit of a dick. But you like him a lot, so maybe there's a certain good quality about him that he just conceals from the public. At least, that's what I'm hoping."