Cement Soul

The hours always decide to take their time with The Man. Trailing sluggishly around him like a taunt in a form of the endless tick tock tick tock that seemed to burn itself into his ear the second the store gets empty. The ink boy stood behind the counter, his usual spot during the late hour compared to the robotic stacking and refilling of overpriced canned good on isle 3. It was the dead of night, the air conditioning frigid cold and the smell of anti-infectant heavy on his plain white shirt. He just finished the final customer in the store, murmuring his “That’ll be $38.75” already elsewhere in his mind.

He was always elsewhere. Even after a year of working at the local grocery, thinking to himself that maybe, just maybe, the people there would reel him into the present and he’d form life standing connections that people always seems to bring up on Sunday dinners and brag about their “Stacy from the liquor store” or “Dan from the gas station”. But alas, it was not the case. He was just a The Man, lonely, back aching and rather lacking the friends and memories worthwhile at the moment.

“Hey, my boy don’t forget to change out the milk” Terence, the department manger said from across the cash register.

He hates the nickname, it literally just being the last letter changed didn’t hold any gushy of emotional attachment to him as most nicknames are.

“Yeah I'll switch it out now” he replied, closing down the computer in front of him.

“Atta boy” Terence says, well more like aggressively states, chest puffed and followed up by the obligatory pat on the back.

The man sets a forced smile on his face before walking towards the frozen isle, already regretting leaving his jacket on the checkout belt.

He’s already counting down the minutes before he gets to leave, he was always in that state. Even if to the onlooker the image in front of them would just be Him reluctantly taking out soon-to-be-expired produce, he was still counting them down. 1 Mississippi, 2 Mississippi.

3 Mississippi.

The voice in his head makes an appearance again. It usually stays away hidden and subdued during working hours, resting in the corners of his headspace like a lounging cat, purring it’s words and brushing it’s tail around the edges of his thoughts. This time, it awakens, bringing itself to the very front of The Man’s mind as he is lost on the monotony of the task in front of him. Out the fridge, in the cart, new bottle, in the fridge, repeat.

It always has something to say, the voice in his head, and this time is no different.

These moments will pass.

The Man worships these words, like an unfortunate soul to a saint, he listens and allows the voice to fester and grow until it’s attached itself to the very being on him.

His hand reaches for a new bottle, only finding it empty as he looks up again to see a restocked fridge and the gaze of his own eyes right back at him. Getting up, the Voice trailing behind him, he heads his way to the locker room, passing the nameless (nameless on his account, for he never actually remembered her name, she was not important in his story) coworker and grabs his few belongings before heading out the back door into the chilly October breeze.

His body follows yet another routine, feet taking step by step as he walks his way amongst familiar pavement on his way home. Forgetting his earphones under the mess of his bed, The Man is left to the company of the Voice, which the music usually blares out until he’s ready to face it again, but without it, it purrs it’s way upfront again.

“Look at the sky” it says.

The ugly thing with no boundaries is looking rather dull don't you think?

1 step, 2 Steps.

But its practically godsend for my eyes compared to the buildings around me. I mean look at this, neighborhoods drooping down like haggard figures illuminated by the pale fluorescence of the streetlights. There's no life here, no art to breathe and intertwine within the bricks and windows. But Outside there is, Outside of this forsaken neighborhood Gods descend onto artisans palms and they craft towers and monuments. This is not where you belong, with the normal folk, behind counters and under skies this grey. You belong Outside, and until then none of this matters.

He turns to a corner on a street, eyeing his rundown apartment complex down the road.

None of this matters, these streets these people, they won’t bring you what you want, so the only thing you should set your sights on is the future. Because that's where you’ll find yourself. There and then, not here.

He walks up the steps, not bothered to step over the fallen leaves from the disregarded season, hearing it crunch and die under the soles of his worn out shoes. 2 more floors to go.

I wonder just how magnificent it will all be, to be surrounded by rich history and endless arrays of streets unlike these, not rundown nad eroded by the stale winds of the seasons, but fresh and rich like deities standing tall and proud with craft.

The Man unlocks his apartment door, stepping into the darkness until his hands find it way to the light switch which flickers slightly before showering the small living space with warm yellow light.

The Voice silences itself, retreating to the shelves in his mind once again, prowling, waiting again for his conscience to quiet and for it to step in. But here in The Man’s tiny haven, it does not need to be heard. For it lives in the trinkets and hung up pages around him.

The Man’s living quarters was a chaotic, order-less space. Clothes thrown over mismatched armchairs, glasses half empty of abandoned cheap liquor resting on endless piles of sketches and blueprints. The Man was an artist in his own right. The pages hung on every inch of bare wall say enough, ranging from groups and colonies of them showcasing studies of monuments and architectural blessings, to his own monuments conjured up from the rushing of pencil on paper.

The Man lived in greys and blacks outside of this apartment, in here, it’s a bloody symphony of color and eraser shavings. His thoughts simply explode into a nova of towers and is possesed by the desire to carve a raging being from concrete and stone. He starts of with a feeling, or sometimes even a sight. From the way a butterfly’s wings curve to the feeling of rain against his face. He solidifies it in a sketch, thousands of them, frantic and brimming with change until it morphs into a final concrete image.

The masterpiece.

Then comes the carving, a careful meticulous process that swallow up days in order to be completed and satisfied by both himself and the Voice. It’s almost frightening how fast he goes, like a haunted dance with pen and ink, until he is finished with the final blueprint and hangs it up with his other collections somewhere in the kitchen (the living room being rather occupied by all the others). Even in the rush of completion, he always finds this persistent nudge in his chest, like a missing piece all his projects seem to have. Pushing it away most of the time, it still arises like a ball floating up to the surface of water.

He remembers this feeling as he observes the mess around him once more, remembering how his last project ended up in shreds and his heart heavier than ever with frustration. Taking off his uniform, he decides to rest for the night. Tired and restless from having never gone through a block this strong and adamant to get in his way, he’s giving up trying to push through. His sketchbooks lays open and abandoned across his sprawled body on the bed.

“What now?” he asks into the silence.

No response, the Voice stays quiet again.

Shooting up, he ruffles his ebony hair as if trying to find some lost hidden idea in the mess of it, scrounging and searching for inspiration to strike and lead into another manic high. Nothing comes up of course. He expected this but still lets out a forced fast sigh of anger.

Turning his head towards the mess of a window, blurry and covered in dust, he stares out in to the black expanse of sky. Sun already set and resting The Man decides to get out of his haven, now nothing more than a constant reminder of what he can't conjure up around him. Grabbing his keys to the bike lock outside, squeezing it tight to the point the keys imprint itself onto his palm, and maneuvers his way through the city of papers until he reaches the front door, leaving and not bothering to turn of the lights on his way out.

Running down the stairs, tears welling up in his eyes, he scowls and wipes them away hot and furious at himself for reacting that way.

How do you expect to succeed if you can’t handle a setback like this, you’re pathetic.

The Voice crawls around him, grabbing onto the opportunity.

yeah keep running, run away from this all, it’s always worked keep your head up keep it keep it up

up

up.

He pounds his feet faster against the pavement, tears now streaming hot and quick, few get blown away by the biting wind against his cheek. Leaving his bike still locked to the chain, The Man doesn't know here he’s going anymore, he stopped caring at this point, right now it’s just his feet taking him far away from his failures. Far enough that he hopes to come back a new man, though he knows this is nothing but false hope, he pushes on even harder just to spite himself anyways.

Because he needs to be stronger, he needs to be able to get through this, for his future.

Stop.

The man halts.

You’ll never reach it.

“Yes I will” he says between rapid breathes, his chest aching and legs beaten to the point he has no idea how he’s still standing “I have to."

These moments will pass.

“Young man, are you alright?” a voice beside him says.

The Man turns at this, looking for the source of such honey sweet words, they carried through the cold wind like blessed dandelions, snapping him out of the daze. The Voice is suddenly deadly silent.

“Yes, sorry to bother you” he says, still panting but catching up with his breathe.

The speaker was an old lady, full and plump and radiating with a strange kind of warmth The Man was too suspicious of to call it welcoming. After all, things we don’t experience are always alien to the experiencer.

“Oh you’re no bother come sit” she pats the spot beside her on the bench.

He doesn't move.

“Well,” she places her hands back on lap, one over the other like a teacher ready to scold her student "I suppose I am but just a stranger”

“Doesn’t hurt to have to company” she says, fishing for some reply from The Man panting in front of her. To her he looks shattered, and not the kind that’s fragile or delicate, but the kind that looks like his solid, stable world is suddenly burning up in cinders around him.

“Why are you asking?” he finally says.

“Because,” she looks away from his piercing stare “one who is so frustrated with themselves is bound to want to let it out somehow.”

“You still didn't answer” he says, wanting to walk away but finding his feet aren't moving.

“So stubborn,” she lets out a gentle laugh. "Fine, don’t sit, go run off into the dark and find some place to wallow in your own self pity.”

“And what if I do?” he questions, feeling like he has to defend himself from her perfectly accurate assumption.

“Then who am I to stop you” she looks at him once again "I am just a stranger remember?”

The Man is intrigued, not noticing how The Voice is screaming to be heard. Taking small steps, he seats himself beside the old lady.

In the dark, not much is to be seen of the two. The moon, barely providing any light behind such thick dark clouds, and the streetlights, far away and distant to the bench they’re now resting on. The Man with a streaked face and the Old Lady with her saccharine smile.

“So,” she says, not looking at the slumped figure beside her.

“So.” he says, arching his neck bare to the stars.

“I expected nothing less.” she says with an odd emphasis like coming up to a conclusion. He watches her taking a sip of the teacup he failed to notice that rested beside her lap.

“Expected?” he questions ,“how can you expect something from someone you just met?”

“Intuition?” she chuckles "you’ll have to forgive me I'm old and dying, half the words I say don’t make sense anymore”

At this he turns his head to her, sitting up straighter at the brazenness of her upcoming death. The Man doesn't say the accustomed “I’m sorry”, for he knows that she’s probably heard it a million items already, he simply stares with new eyes.

“Do you know when” he asks, already skipping over boundary lines.

“A couple of weeks at most” she says, not offended by the intrusiveness of his curiosity at all “heart to beaten to handle me anymore.”

“So what’re you doing here talking to me?” he replies rather passionately, confused about why he seems to be so angry with her "You could be out there or literally anywhere else enjoying your last living moments.”

She sets her cup down and lets out a tired sigh, the warmth that radiates of her never simmering down.

“Young man,” she retorts back "I have lived my life, I’m living my life right this very second, every minute every hour I breathe I am living. I don't need to wait for some spectacular moment in the future to dictate that for me.”

The Man sits up all the way now, confused at her reply.

“What do you mean?” he says “the future is all that we get to live for, it’s the dream and the life that we want that keeps us going, that keeps me going, I’m afraid I don't understand”

“Of course you don’t.”

“And why is that?”

“Because you live there.”

“Live where?”

“In the future young man, you reside there as if you have all the time in the world, as if there’s a golden bridge you think you have to run miles and miles and to cross when really you were always on it, you’re just too blind to see.”

“How so, after all you’ve only just met me.”

“You’re not denying it.”

“Nor am I agreeing.”

They both stare at each other, making out the features of lips noses and eyes, peering into each others very soul. The Man laughs, quiet at first before erupting into a full blown mess of howling and aggressive raking of his hair. The old lady simply waits, for she knows she is right.

“Tell me, what do you do” she says after he’s calmed down to just the occasion ale chuckle with a shake of his head.

“I'm a dreamer” he says, half joking half hoping.

“Wake up then” she starts to get up, a slow painful process " you reside in your dreams too, the only way they come true is if you’re there to see it.”

The Man has nothing to say to that, neither does The Voice.

He watches as she hobbles away, not even yelling a farewell or a goodbye, knowing full well that that was probably the only time he was every going to to see that woman.

The Man stands, walking away from the bench towards the bridge just at the edge of town. He takes his time with it, the rush and blur of the afternoon and previous hours no longer present. He walks with a sort of raw awakening, he walks with sudden purpose.

He reaches the bridge, grabs hold of the rusted iron and climbs his way to the abandoned viewpoint at the very top. Handlebar by handlebar, every flex and pull from his muscles feeding onto this growing sense of longing, he wonders where The Voice is.

He doesn't worry for too long though, reaching the top he pulls his weight to the final landing place. The wind is at full strength now, pushing against him violently but he stands still.

His thoughts stand still.

The old woman man words resonate, and as The Man stands alone, like a conqueror watching over charred ruins, it chases away The Voice. Until it’s beaten and bruised but he still wishes for it to come, to fill the silence that beckons him forward.

One final moment. One final decision that he suddenly feels like he has to make. Almost as if awoken from a deep deep slumber The Man spreads his arms wide encapsulating the entirety of his existence. His head flashes with images of him wandering the expanse of brick and stone, of Gods and dreamers looking down towards him in pity. For this whole time he’s done nothing but wait and wait and wait.

The Man and voice, one in the same:

"These moment will pass."

THE END.