The Windmill laughs as Don Quixote dreams of victory and the scarlet lady strides quickly down the lamplit street, having left his smoky room. The clattering of pans escapes the hotel kitchen and the beggar outside asks himself, ‘What kind of life is this I live?’ Whilst counting his dirty coins; thrown at him by the village butcher.
A thunder struck ménage of sailor’s march on the scene; drunk on the shear hypocrisy of loving solid earth. Carrying each other’s sick on their shoes, they look for bars and solace.
Broken toys litter the cobbled street that leads to the graveyard, where the bent figure of pity attends the gate.
The beggar drops a coin. As it rolls into a grid, he laughs, ‘Fate has proven it’s in control; I am off the hook,’ he mumbles.
Now, as dreams attempt to patch the leaking cup of common sense; the time of loathing grows slowly near. To force the emancipation from loved ones; offering no sympathy, or tears.
As night time falls, the weeds of dubiety grow between the cracks in ‘logics’ game; as it guards against the rusty sword of histories sullied tales.
At the hamburger stall, two men in leather chew and slurp on an onion laden cadaver, after another day of slog and trivial conversation. The rain starts to fall, reflecting the street lights in each drop.
‘Another day in Sad Land,’ thinks the beggar. Then, hoping for more hope, he limps down the wet street followed by a starving dog whilst reproaching himself for having thoughts of stealing.
In the room of pretence, the psychiatrist listens to the Clown who says; ‘I strive for happiness, but I just can’t reach it; the makeup is my only smile.’
‘Join the club’, says the psychiatrist; you get free, lifelong membership and knowledge that the future offers much more to lose; please pay the bill as you leave.’
Then, just as the end seems near, joy filled bombs of transcendence fall on the fertile field of truth, residing in the hearts of the open minded.
As Don Quixote awakens, the Windmill gasps in wonder.
© Steve Bentley