The years go fast, but the days go so slow.
There’s smoke rising from a chimney two streets down in my little suburbia. I blow out smoke in the same fashion from a cigarette. Nostalgia swept over this night and I read posts from the past two years. Nothing much has changed here. And it starts sometime around midnight.
Music streams constant for a background noise. The rhythm doesn’t seem to change much either. A slow melody. Somehow it harmonizes, invigorates and stimulates my senses. Reminds me of cold mornings with coffee and a cigarette on the front porch. Writing.
There was one time after a hiatus from Tumblr that a follower said she missed my posts. I’m sure this girl had three hundred people flooding her dash, but she noticed my captions. I used to write half page stories. I invented memories, moments in time for non-existent people. I am fond of them, and a little envious.
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I woke up. Not startled, simply conscious. My eyes found the ceiling while my body noticed half of the bed sheets playing twister with my right side. One hand ruffled through unkempt hair, the other worked to set free my legs. Paige lives an hour behind my time zone; she won’t be awake until nine.
I’m overwhelmed with a feeling of nothing. The neurons that transmit emotion are shut down this morning. It’s not sadness that today is Tuesday and nothing happens on Tuesdays. It’s not weary wake-up blues. It’s just an out-of-body existence. This is just one of those days where taking a ride to absolutely nowhere would mean the world.
I make coffee then stand on the front porch.
A car drives by. Good morning, stranger.
I’ll see you on the road. Routine.
