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It’s hard to show the cracks. Those tiny little fissures of uncertainty that peek from beneath my hat. If you show the cracks, it’s bound to be filled with sand. Blown from the four corners of the earth. Rubbing raw. Meticulously and persistently. So I’ll be brave. I’ll be brave today and give you a show. The best damn show you’ll ever see. I’ll pretend I’m happy. Happy with the way things are. Certain that the way things are, are the best damn thing ever. I’ll paint another picture and pretend she’s not me. Pretend she’s some old gal from my New Orleans dreams. Those dreams that haunt me, with the hidden Gauguin behind the wooden boards. The drinks, the merry, the sticky. The dancing girls. Sweet notes from down the street. A lullaby from my ancient life. Faintly mingling with my thoughts.
So I’ll be brave today. I’ll dance on tables and laugh like a drunk whore. Pretend that tomorrow’s not coming. Pretend that tomorrow won’t be like today. Pretend like tomorrow my New Orleans will stay.
