the diner. 🚬

Tales are constrained to a certain place and time, whether the penman agrees with this sentiment or not.

There are other things too, that dictate what will spew from the penman's ink, bleed onto the page and stain the paper with a sense of either permanency or the whimsical nature of nothingness ~ never to have been anything at all.

For this tale there is no matter, make of it as you please ~ absorb it into the eternal nature of existence, or let it pass by into everything that has ever been beforehand.

Humans have a funny concept of health ~ a fixation, one might suggest. It’s plausible that humans are looked upon and ridiculed in this way, unable to accept the fragility of existence, and therefore doing all sorts of wacky things to delay the inevitable.

Does it make some sense? Sure. Allowing for prolonged pleasure whilst confined to a four-limbed, one-headed reality is surely agreeable…

It’s the obsession…the obsession.

Anyhow, our tale begins in the back ass of nowhere, USA ~ at a diner where the sunlight somehow seems to miss even in the dead heat of summer. Kurt sang the following sometime during another when:

“In the sun, in the sun I feel as one…in the sun.”

Well, suffice it to say that this sure wouldn’t have been his place, though neither was Seattle for that matter…as mentioned, tales are confined to a time and space ~ Kurt was a blip on the radar of forever.

The penman realizes this…the penman continues.

All that talk about the sun was useless, it’s midnight where we’re at; the highway is free of its racing occupants, save for the handful of semi trucks, crisscrossing the nation in the shadows, ensuring little Jimmy has his flatscreen TV by Monday.

A steady hand clutches the cup; raises it, and ingests the black, smooth liquid within. There is something about a black coffee; an aesthetic; and it tells us something about our character. Adding to the scene is a cigarette that’s halfway to its demise in the weathered ashtray, with gentle waves of smoke dancing their way to the counter.

Perhaps they’re hungry, these waves of smoke ~ who could say otherwise?

Though absurd, which of us could comment on the internal reality of the smoke? Which of us could comment on the internal reality of anything but ourselves, for that matter? An understanding of something else is little more than a projection from our own, four-walled garden, for which we think to be the locus of existence.

This is a primary human mistake, and one that gets us increasingly in trouble. Don’t assume your reality to be that of anything more than yourself, and given the complexity of the individual mind, even the validity of such a statement should be in question.

Listen to the penman… sounding like a self-righteous prick, and yet here we are. The penman continues.

The diner, would you like to know more? Hell, why not, let our discourse continue.

This hand twiddling with the black cup of coffee and expiring cigarette is that of a man; middle age; tinges of gray encroaching on the brown locks indicating that some life has indeed been lived. The question is, what circumstances led our character to arrive at this juncture at such a time, and what future events lie ahead?

Returning to health, our penman suggests that there must be layers to such a topic, as health as a broad subject without any form of thoughtful analysis means nuances elude us. Is there such a time that an all night diner, accompanied by nothing more than our current elements can provide additions to one's health?

A fitness expert would surely say otherwise. And yet, are we to suggest that one who specializes in fitness is the authority on what the definition of health is, across the board? Could they comment appropriately on what is deemed to be healthy, from a spiritual, psychological, and existential point of view?

Perhaps…and yet, perhaps not.

Anyhow, our character is accompanied by these trusty friends…these contemporaries of whom will never desert us ~ are there 24/7, and ready to welcome us into their warm, ever-loving embrace, as some sort of a spiritual healing process. A small taste of death hits the back of his throat, floats through his lungs, and departs the body through a steady stream of smoke as the ashtray claims another victim.

It’s precisely at this moment that our second character enters the scene (to the applause of the audience, if it were a 90’s sitcom), where a young lady dressed in a checkered pink mini skirt and matching top captures the attention of our man, and says something like the below:

“Howdy, darlin’ ~ you look like a man that could use some real lovin’. Say, how about you come with me, $50 and I’m sure that we could have a great time, you and me.”

Now see, this is what could’ve been said. Who actually knows what really took place besides our man and this additional character. All we have is observation in this instance, and this is what appeared to have taken place inside this diner in the back ass of nowhere.

A life of debauchery or the upholding of righteousness ~ aspiring towards a life that denounces such a descent into the ever-expanding world of sensual gratification. Sure, it can be said that for many great people, falling victim to their impulses has led to their ultimate demise, as well as shattering the lives of all those around them who were implicated in their activity.

And some may say that this experience of eternal pleasure is nothing more than the liberation of centuries upon centuries of archaic thought which placed value on the opposite. That we ought to indulge ourselves, to be free of these shackles, and do whatever the fuck we please, under the oh-so-loiving-guise of liberation.

The penman calls bullshit…although the penman is just the penman.

Diddy do it or didn’t he do it? As mentioned, tales are constrained to a certain time and place, whether you or I or anyone else likes it or not. The simple fact of the matter is what a sick and twisted reality one can end up in if they adhere to nothing more than the call of their flesh ~ of their need to satisfy their senses, which Socrates accurately described as a ‘leaky jar’, always needing to be filled.

And if not money, if not fame, if not social media status, if not external validation, then where should one derive their value from? Their code; morals; values; and ethics? Good question, because it is of the penman’s belief that we need something, and assuming a priori that we can handle all this…alone, is a mistake, and one that allows us to be led into such an aforementioned world.

The King of all Kings, the Son of God seems, to the penman, our only saviour in this increasingly darkened world. The allegiance to the Most High, with an unwavering commitment alongside a humility knowing that one will stumble and fall, provides the framework with which we are chasing.

Everyone needs something. Everyone needs guidance beyond their own faculties. Everyone has a choice.

The diner is entering the early hours of the morning, where the world around us dwells within their deepest slumber, in communication with the unconscious as the restrictions of the conscious mind eases. The coffee jug is empty; the lady has shifted to the weary truckers who lean on their hunches on the cherry red barstools, preparing for the long haul out to California.

The penman closes the journal, alleviated of the spiritual tension acting as a supercharged atom in the centre of his being. Could some form of net positive regarding health have occurred here, despite the late-night; cigarettes; and coffee? Who knows. The penman realizes that this isn’t his realm of authority.

The penman rises…the penman exits into the darkness.