BAR AT THE END OF THE ROAD

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YOU KNOW IT’S THE WRITE WAY

BAR AT THE END OF THE ROAD

I found the bar at the end of the highway. It wasn’t that I was looking for it. I wasn’t really looking for anything. I just felt so empty, so totally drained.
I got out the car and went in – ordered a drink – drank it down – ordered another. Thought about how easily I could hit oblivion.
The bar was almost empty, too. It reflected back my life, a life ignored, a life abused, a life of boredom …

It had promised so much, had marriage.

She had been wonderful, and we were so perfectly attuned, perfectly as one, and I was so perfectly …
What? Deluded? Not seeing reality for what it was? Not registering the crap that would soon begin to fly?
It had been one hell of an argument …
The third drink went down the same way as the others. Oblivion was coming closer – and I ordered another.
‘And I’ll have one, too.’
I turned round; wondered where SHE’D come from. Unable to believe I’d missed her as I entered.
I bought her a drink. And it was inevitable we would talk – about my problems, about her life, about the meaning of everything. Until, several drinks later, she advised she had a room upstairs …
It was a heady mixture of booze and expectation as I entered her room. Hormones pumped through my body and I was ready as I took her in my arms.
Maybe it was the shock of what I was about to do, but it was then that I burst into tears – torrents of tears, pouring down my face, washing away the stresses and strains of so long, cascading away to …
To what?
To another girl’s arms, at the end of another highway? And as we both said sorry, we cried together, and kissed.

© Anthony North, April 2008

HAUNTED HOUSE

The house is empty, solitary, creepy,
to enter can affect you deeply;
As cobwebs brush your face and hair,
you’ll quickly learn to be aware;
If you had driven down the highway outside,
and through the corner of your eye you spied,
you should have ignored it, or at least have tried

But in you come, you don’t believe in ghosts,
at least that’s what you always boast;
Yet my creepy finger rubs down your spine,
as with your mind my presence will entwine;
Until you’re as timid as a mouse,
no longer denying ghosts you espouse,
especially as this is YOUR house

(c) Anthony North, April 2008

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TO BE IGNORED

To be ignored is a terri …. (cough) … Err! Excuse me! Pay attention.
That’s better. To be ignored is a terrible thing. There’s nothing worse than speaking and no one is listening to you. And it isn’t long before you’re seething.
Of course, it could be that you are totally boring; or maybe the person has no interest in the subject at hand. Or worse of all, you are one of those people who appear to be a non-entity.
If you are, you’ve got problems. Your existence can be totally empty, and you negotiate the highway of life alone. In one sense, there’s nothing you can do about it. It is your personality. You are made like that. But it could be that you simply need to raise your confidence – be more assertive, take risks.

I used to feel like that about my writing.

For years I’d bashed away on the typewriter, totally ignored by publishers. I’d play with my style, trying to please them, but to no avail.
Eventually, of course, I’d had enough. Ignored too long, I decided to go on-line. And soon after that, I started this blog. For several months I hardly did anything with it. Then, about March last year, I discovered something.
People were beginning to comment, and I was no longer ignored. And now, just over a year later, I’ve just passed a quarter million hits.
What does this tell me – and you – about being ignored? Simple. Ignore THEM and do what YOU want to do. And pretty soon you find you’re not ignored at all.
From the bottom of my heart, thank you!

© Anthony North, April 2008

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