Another Toast
George: May the wind always be at your back and the sun upon your face.
Fred Jung: And may the wings of destiny carry you aloft to dance with the stars.
Fred Jung: Cheers, Georgie.
George: Cheers, pop.
– Blow (2001) –
And then you wake up, and your mind starts wondering once again…Wasted, Wasted, Wasted, like the rotten breaths you try so desperately to hide in the morning. You look at yourself in the mirror, and you see the devil staring back at you. That mocking gaze penetrates your skull and ignites the nightmares of your troubled sleep. You take a cold shower, trying hard to wash away her memory, to clean off her smell that your skin is soaked with, to hush down her voice that you can hear so clearly under water, to silence her laughter that still rings like church bells in your head, to erase the image of her face that comes to life every time you close your eyes. But you fail miserably, as you always do, as you always will. And when you step out of the shower, you pick up the phone, call her up and ask her how she’s doing.
Let us go then, let us drive away and try to hide from this cruel sun. What do Irish sailors know about reaching the stars anyway! They were never tortured by the flaming sun of the desert. Strong and relentless, its ugly rays pour down from every corner of the sky, like the burning truths we were trying so desperately to ignore. And even if we stopped, even if we slowed down, even if we decided to halt for a while and give our silly useless brains time to evaluate the matter, the sun would never give us a break. Within seconds everything would burst into flames, and nothing would remain but the tasteless ashes of our dreams and realities, feeding the senseless anger that leads us to self-destruction.
So let´s have another toast, right before I leave... To Amman, a city so ridiculously limited, in a way that challenges Imagination. A city whose walls close down on you every second, strangling your dreams, and forcing you to fight for every bubble of Freedom you have managed to create. A city where the eyes of strangers haunt your mind and keeps it restless, as you turn around to scan the faces in empty restaurants and less fashionable bars, paralyzed by unexplainable Fear from those recognizable shadows that only exist in your head. To Amman, to the amazingly beautiful moments we´ve managed to steal, and to the Moon shining down peacefully after long hours of the horrible sun, telling us that all our desires are attainable, even if we need to work just a little bit harder in order to reach the stars.
Fred Jung: And may the wings of destiny carry you aloft to dance with the stars.
Fred Jung: Cheers, Georgie.
George: Cheers, pop.
– Blow (2001) –
And then you wake up, and your mind starts wondering once again…Wasted, Wasted, Wasted, like the rotten breaths you try so desperately to hide in the morning. You look at yourself in the mirror, and you see the devil staring back at you. That mocking gaze penetrates your skull and ignites the nightmares of your troubled sleep. You take a cold shower, trying hard to wash away her memory, to clean off her smell that your skin is soaked with, to hush down her voice that you can hear so clearly under water, to silence her laughter that still rings like church bells in your head, to erase the image of her face that comes to life every time you close your eyes. But you fail miserably, as you always do, as you always will. And when you step out of the shower, you pick up the phone, call her up and ask her how she’s doing.
Let us go then, let us drive away and try to hide from this cruel sun. What do Irish sailors know about reaching the stars anyway! They were never tortured by the flaming sun of the desert. Strong and relentless, its ugly rays pour down from every corner of the sky, like the burning truths we were trying so desperately to ignore. And even if we stopped, even if we slowed down, even if we decided to halt for a while and give our silly useless brains time to evaluate the matter, the sun would never give us a break. Within seconds everything would burst into flames, and nothing would remain but the tasteless ashes of our dreams and realities, feeding the senseless anger that leads us to self-destruction.
So let´s have another toast, right before I leave... To Amman, a city so ridiculously limited, in a way that challenges Imagination. A city whose walls close down on you every second, strangling your dreams, and forcing you to fight for every bubble of Freedom you have managed to create. A city where the eyes of strangers haunt your mind and keeps it restless, as you turn around to scan the faces in empty restaurants and less fashionable bars, paralyzed by unexplainable Fear from those recognizable shadows that only exist in your head. To Amman, to the amazingly beautiful moments we´ve managed to steal, and to the Moon shining down peacefully after long hours of the horrible sun, telling us that all our desires are attainable, even if we need to work just a little bit harder in order to reach the stars.
posted by Without a Cause at 4:27 PM
3 Comments:
To the anger that turned out to an awful silent longing...
To you before and after....cheers
Man forget about Amman. Shake off its memory, at least for now. It will always be there for you to get back to. Take in the new surroundings and the new faces, and breathe inside your newly-found bubble of Freedom, before the heaviness of life manages to burst it again.
Cheers.
are you sure if you work just a little bit harder, you would reach the stars ????
are you working ?????
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