I write about people just enough to feel human. To feel as though I belong to something bigger than myself. To pretend I know the dirty little secrets that everyone keeps stitched in the lining of their skin.
But maybe we all read our own press too much. Or don’t press enough. Don’t squeeze and hold on to the things that matter the most, letting them slip through our fingers like snakes between chicken wire.
And I guess to have a destiny is to never know where the road ends. When to let it put us to sleep and drift into oncoming traffic, hoping at least one person is paying attention.
The drugs have taken hold of my veins and I want to sleep but I know this rabbit hole will take me deeper into something I haven’t grasped yet. Something I can’t see because my tongue won’t reach out further than my nose.
Taking time off from a notebook or a keyboard has my head tangled. Like someone at the phone company crossed the lines and I keep getting connected to a foreign tongued national and security is pounding on my door while I have one foot out the window, trying desperately to make contact with someone other than the voices inside my head.
If I take the plunge and let the cold waters of the Atlantic grip my ribs, the tide will surely carry me to places that no one knows about. The kind of places that only exist when we aren’t looking.
And the crystal champagne glasses holding our futures are almost pitch perfect. They are always a little sharp or a little flat. So we keep sipping and then refilling, hoping to find middle C amongst a sea of noise.