Cowardice can be seen as
running away and not facing the vulnerability, fear and hardships that life can
often pose. You are often emasculated by your peers for possessing such a
quality.
Take, for example, that man sitting on the bench over there; head in his hands slouched over as if he’s perched on the side of a boat about to fall, not dive, into the dark gloomy waters beneath which are occupying his mind. His actions leave him hoping to be swallowed up by the cold harsh body. Saturated, weighed down as he sinks further and further into the murky waters hoping to hit rock bottom, hoping that it can only get better from there. Desperately gasping for breath as he’s consumed, still fighting, but to what avail? His lungs spilling over, full to capacity as the light becomes a distant flicker tantalising the surface.
Wrinkles plague this man’s face. He is a defeated silhouette of a man, who stoops as he walks; he is the personification of disappointment.
He didn't mean to react the way he did, he didn't mean to hurt anyone, but the pressure got to him, he couldn't take it anymore, he was crushed. Constant questions, constant demands to know his thoughts on which colour looked best, because there is a noticeable difference between maroon and burgundy. He didn't like being the star of the show; a show that had rocketed from town hall to Broadway, the constant attention was too much. It was no longer just the two of them.
Were his cracks not evident? The water spilled in, dampening his mood. He wasn't himself, reverting into his shell to hide from it all. His life was going to change, he knew this, he welcomed this, but he didn't realise it would be such a big leap. Why did it have to be such a spectacle?
He sits on the bench. He is a broken cowardly lion who will never find his bravery. He should have been standing there, watching her glide down the aisle; serene and tranquil like an untouched lake.
Were his cracks not evident? The water gushed in, knocking him from his feet. He was quiet. He had little input. She spoke and he listened. Not uttering a word. Nodding like the dog who sits in the back of your car. He spent more time at work. He hated work, but it meant he didn't have to deal with the wedding. That and he needed the extra money. Scared of opening his wallet in case that cliché moth fluttered out, laughing at him as it reached heights he was unable to achieve.
In the months leading up to the wedding he sat on that bench many a time, wondering what to do, how to approach the issue, but each time walking away none the wiser. Red palm prints embedded in his forehead as the weight went unsupported. Not knowing how to get out of this, not knowing how to make it right. He could try and swim to the surface but the arms of the ocean pulled him back, flailing, but never letting him go.
This man knows what he must do despite the weight crashing against his chest, only eased as the tide retracts momentarily. If you were observing this man you would see that he is torn, unsure of what he might do next, staring from beneath at the fractured moonlight on the surface.
The Heavens opened, each drop bruising his peachy skin maroon and burgundy in colour, forcing him to seek shelter. The wail of the rain carries her sobs in every pitter-patter. He imagines her sitting at her dressing table, staring at her cracked reflection as she’s battered by the rain at an angle. Dripping as her hair desperately clings to her face; she continues to sit, solemn, shivering and wondering what she’s done wrong. Tears and rain becoming one create black streams down her face, as she remains dull and expressionless.
He loosens his cravat, takes off his jacket and slings it over his shoulder, his rose falling into a puddle. As he goes to pick it up, he sees her reflection through the ripples, broken. The wedding is exactly what he wanted, yet he remains on the bench fighting with his demons. He couldn't help but cower from the shotgun wedding. Wiping the rain from his face he breaks into a run, and then a sprint, leaping over puddles as mud clings to the bottom of his trousers, he imagines himself hurdling. As he runs he realises he doesn't care about anyone else, he doesn't care about the flower arrangements, or who sits next to who, he just cares about her, she is his life and he needs to fix this, before it’s too late.
He can breathe; he can exhale deeply and feel relief, and no longer is it a struggle. He shakes his hair like it’s his mane, from side to side, emerging as a new man, a man who is going to take control and lead with pride. Everyone makes mistakes, he realises this, but mistakes can be corrected. He runs with desperation, he runs with determination, he runs carelessly. He realises the church is on the next block, and runs faster than he is capable of, but he can’t afford not to push his limits. He realises he spent too much time sitting on that blasted bench.
Take, for example, that man sitting on the bench over there; head in his hands slouched over as if he’s perched on the side of a boat about to fall, not dive, into the dark gloomy waters beneath which are occupying his mind. His actions leave him hoping to be swallowed up by the cold harsh body. Saturated, weighed down as he sinks further and further into the murky waters hoping to hit rock bottom, hoping that it can only get better from there. Desperately gasping for breath as he’s consumed, still fighting, but to what avail? His lungs spilling over, full to capacity as the light becomes a distant flicker tantalising the surface.
Wrinkles plague this man’s face. He is a defeated silhouette of a man, who stoops as he walks; he is the personification of disappointment.
He didn't mean to react the way he did, he didn't mean to hurt anyone, but the pressure got to him, he couldn't take it anymore, he was crushed. Constant questions, constant demands to know his thoughts on which colour looked best, because there is a noticeable difference between maroon and burgundy. He didn't like being the star of the show; a show that had rocketed from town hall to Broadway, the constant attention was too much. It was no longer just the two of them.
Were his cracks not evident? The water spilled in, dampening his mood. He wasn't himself, reverting into his shell to hide from it all. His life was going to change, he knew this, he welcomed this, but he didn't realise it would be such a big leap. Why did it have to be such a spectacle?
He sits on the bench. He is a broken cowardly lion who will never find his bravery. He should have been standing there, watching her glide down the aisle; serene and tranquil like an untouched lake.
Were his cracks not evident? The water gushed in, knocking him from his feet. He was quiet. He had little input. She spoke and he listened. Not uttering a word. Nodding like the dog who sits in the back of your car. He spent more time at work. He hated work, but it meant he didn't have to deal with the wedding. That and he needed the extra money. Scared of opening his wallet in case that cliché moth fluttered out, laughing at him as it reached heights he was unable to achieve.
In the months leading up to the wedding he sat on that bench many a time, wondering what to do, how to approach the issue, but each time walking away none the wiser. Red palm prints embedded in his forehead as the weight went unsupported. Not knowing how to get out of this, not knowing how to make it right. He could try and swim to the surface but the arms of the ocean pulled him back, flailing, but never letting him go.
This man knows what he must do despite the weight crashing against his chest, only eased as the tide retracts momentarily. If you were observing this man you would see that he is torn, unsure of what he might do next, staring from beneath at the fractured moonlight on the surface.
The Heavens opened, each drop bruising his peachy skin maroon and burgundy in colour, forcing him to seek shelter. The wail of the rain carries her sobs in every pitter-patter. He imagines her sitting at her dressing table, staring at her cracked reflection as she’s battered by the rain at an angle. Dripping as her hair desperately clings to her face; she continues to sit, solemn, shivering and wondering what she’s done wrong. Tears and rain becoming one create black streams down her face, as she remains dull and expressionless.
He loosens his cravat, takes off his jacket and slings it over his shoulder, his rose falling into a puddle. As he goes to pick it up, he sees her reflection through the ripples, broken. The wedding is exactly what he wanted, yet he remains on the bench fighting with his demons. He couldn't help but cower from the shotgun wedding. Wiping the rain from his face he breaks into a run, and then a sprint, leaping over puddles as mud clings to the bottom of his trousers, he imagines himself hurdling. As he runs he realises he doesn't care about anyone else, he doesn't care about the flower arrangements, or who sits next to who, he just cares about her, she is his life and he needs to fix this, before it’s too late.
He can breathe; he can exhale deeply and feel relief, and no longer is it a struggle. He shakes his hair like it’s his mane, from side to side, emerging as a new man, a man who is going to take control and lead with pride. Everyone makes mistakes, he realises this, but mistakes can be corrected. He runs with desperation, he runs with determination, he runs carelessly. He realises the church is on the next block, and runs faster than he is capable of, but he can’t afford not to push his limits. He realises he spent too much time sitting on that blasted bench.
Johno Fagan
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