Alternatives

  Alternatives


We are free or not, to choose the way we live our lives
There is always an alternative.

Thoroughfares caught in the glare of neon lights, shop windows brightly lit display wealth and opulence, adding to the illusion of well being.
But come with me into the litter strewn lanes and alleyways where the bright lights dare not go, stand in the shadows and watch those lost souls who seek to bury the reality of what they have become.

Observe as they befriend the darkness, taking some small comfort
From the cloak it wraps around them.
Watch as bitter and ashamed they quaff the elixir that helps deaden the pain of what they have become, transporting them for a short time to a place that exists only in their imaginations.
White knuckles clutching tightly the bottles of cheap wine, or any other rot gut spirit that offers some form of escape.

Feel their shame as favours are handed out for a mouthful of cheap hooch, see bodies writhe in mock ecstasy while filthy hands with broken fingernails grope frantically at unwashed bodies.

A young woman lies on cobblestones; a bottle is raised to her lips while her eyes are locked on the bright star Orion as a drunk fumbles with her underwear, the disgust of what she has become almost choking in her. Her reward for the ordeal is a mouthful or two of cheap booze, and a few cigarettes.

A short hop from the filth and degradation where even the city’s rats resent living, the night walkers ply their trade.
Long legs and short skirts are the bait they use, promising heaven and other untold pleasures.
But beware, there are those among them who in promising such pleasures sow the seeds of death by instalment, aids like most killers, has no conscience and no regard for those it visits.




For those unfortunates trapped within the unending spiral of hopelessness, long forgotten are the warm summer days when soft rain gently kissed fragrant flowers, their soft petals upturned to receive the water of life.
Instead of fragrant flowers, their nostrils now take in the smell of whiskey soured breath and sweat from unwashed bodies.

Yet for all these things offend them they also serve to remind them that they are still in the land of the living.

Let us move on, and observe those other unfortunates that instead of alcohol they crave the hit that drugs bring, the sudden rush that blows the mind and jolts the brain, lifting them to another level and saturating their senses.
They are the searchers, the young and the not so young, perhaps searching for themselves among the debris and wreckage of their wasted lives.
For them paradise lies in the hypodermic needle, or tablets of lsd. For those things have the power to banish disillusionment, and transport them to a Technicolor world.

In this world nothing is impossible, the supermen among them climb the highest towers, and standing atop them they breathe in the rarefied air, arms become wings and flight from purgatory becomes reality.
They who dare to make the leap into the void, feel for a few precious moments the rush of the cool night air against their skin, and for a time are as eagles.

There is no fear, no sense of impending doom as they rush in headlong flight towards oblivion on the litter strewn street far below.