He was slip sliding away.
It was a dark and gloomy night and the moon was overshadowed by the vastness of the overcast enveloping the whole town. One could hardly see a few feet away, but you can hear the sounds. The music, the seagulls, the crowd.
With the help of alcohol and blues, he was trying to make the memories fade into blur. He was slip sliding away from consciousness and away from the outside world.
In one of the oldest bars on the edge of it, down where the roughnecks and scums of the earth meet, Johnny was busy making love with his lone guitar and all of its hues, trying to burn himself away with his blues. He was no Johnny be-good, just your old Johnny-come-lately kind of guy.
At the background you can hear Simon, being the folk hero that he is, slip sliding away not far away from where Johnny stood. He said “a good day aint got no rain”. But heck what can we make of it, Johnny says, when it’s been raining all day?
He came from a small town, and traveled all the way to Mississippi, a place he can’t even spell right with those bunch of esses and pees. All he knows is that he came, and that he was there. Because it doesn’t matter where you came from, what matters is where you’re going.
If only he knew where.
Oftentimes, he doesn’t even want to know, he just wanted to go. Once an idea hits his head, he just hits the road and go. The weariness never went away. He doesn’t really know that it ever would anyway.
As he sat there in the edge of town, with downtown lights and south of town crowd, he can’t help but wonder, that while the weariness never really goes away, he always knew that he wanted it to. He always wanted to conquer foreign lands, settle into it, and make his mark unto it, and stay put. He always wanted to achieve something that he had never had. Something better, something new.
But as he reaches these new heights, pretty much like acquiring new skills, as soon as he sets himself into it, something entirely different and unexpected (or was it expected?) would happen. He would realize that it was no better.
And as he say goodbye to his last whiskey, Simon came up and said to him, “the more you know you’re nearer, the more you slip sliding away, my friend.”
Slip sliding away.