Number Seven: A Fisherman of Sorts

Pen and watercolour.

Pen and watercolour.

Here is a man that if he could be

anything he would be a fisherman

but instead he is attached to a phone and

doesn’t exist in

a Hemingway novel. He

holds a pen and writes in a notebook which

makes me feel better. I am contented

to watch him and I imagine that he is

a professor.

He teaches philosophy, reads Nietzsche

and claims to love Camus. But really

he’s a Sartre man.

Oh yes, he’s pulled out a novel. It’s been chewed on

and ruffled. Please don’t be a mass produced paperback. He

looks tired. So I ask him why.

“Young woman, I’m tired for the

same reason you are.”

“And why is that?”

“For us, there is no divide between

yesterday and today. There

never will be.”

“How do you know I feel that way?”

“Because I can read the hopelessness in your

lips,

the doggedness in your eyes,

and a misplaced desire in your walk.”

When I don’t respond he returns to

Cujo.

“You know, that’s supposed to be

his worst book.”

 

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This entry was published on Sunday, August 17, 2014 at 9:13 pm. It’s filed under Artwork, Poetry and tagged , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post.

2 thoughts on “Number Seven: A Fisherman of Sorts

  1. Love the colors . Inspirational piece of work make me feel as if I were in a novel looking at a view of the sea.

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