Scrutiny

You look around. Sweaty men, crowding around an invisible table. Their shouts and swearing were gibberish. One of the men notice you staring, you look away.You notice the walls, peeling off, threatening to uncover some morbid secret. The ceiling comes next. A fan, rotating meekly was winging like a trapeze artist. It used to be white , but now it has aged and turned the color of coal. The bar has become crowded, men of all shapes and sizes cluster in, yet that man continued to read, not looking up from those pages. You notice his glass is still half full, half empty...

Bewilderment

You wonder so hard, your head starts to hurt. You take your beer and find a seat near the man. Not too near, you might draw attention. Its not like you've not seen someone reading a novel, but this man didn't seem like a reader. Plus, you think to yourself, this is definitely not the place to read a book, noisy, dirty and shady, one would lose focus. This brings you into this reverie. Why are you here? You seem to be a normal, regular, working class individual. Likely educated and probably smart enough. Aren't you just like him? beer in one hand and a briefcase on the table. You look at that man again.

An intrusion.

You see a man sitting in a corner of a small, shady looking bar. Whisky in one hand, book in another and a cup of tea on the table. His clothes look as though they been through some tough times, scrunched up and dull, they suit the setting. If you would have walked straight through, you would have not made that slight distinction between wall and man. The book strikes you as somewhat of a mismatch. As destroyed as his clothes, the book he was holding looked antique. It was dark , his eyes squinted, desperately trying to catch those words. The cup of tea seemed incongruous,but at the same time quite comfortable, sitting there on the table. You wonder who he is.

Together we see the truth in lines.

After the torchlight red on sweaty faces
After the frosty silence in the gardens
After the agony in stony places
The shouting and the crying
Prison and palace and reverberation
Of thunder of spring over distant mountains
He who was living is now dead
We who were living are now dying
With a little patience

T.S ELIOT