running man

We've been sitting at the diner for two hours now, as I check the clock on my phone and then take a sip of water and look at her, square in the eyes, as she explains to me that I can't run forever.
I ask her what she means.
"You're running."
"You are too," I say.
And she agrees with me because she knows its true.
For curiosity's sake we ask each other for a back story; a "what happened" spiel and let one another string out a depressing tale of misfortune. But the stories don't matter. Their content is only the painted color on the jagged surface of emotion we feel inside.
"You can't run forever."
And I tell her I know, and when I get tired I'll stop, but right now I have a lot of stamina.
And the waitress comes by again, for the fifth time tonight and asks us if we want more water and we take some- to cool the burning feeling of hot memories that make us both sweat with anxiety.
Running.
She was right. I was running. From a lot of things. From the people I had met, from the places I had been to, from the jobs I had left, from the cloths that I had stained, from the situations I couldn't handle.....
No, that's not right.
"Why do you run when you can handle anything?"
Because I don't want to handle them. Don't have the gut for it.
The diner was cool inside and that made no sense because it was cold outside. Surprisingly there were a lot of people sitting around us, talking, eating, having a good time. It was late, that's why I say surprising. The lights were bright inside, soaking the room in this harsh fluorescent white. My eyes were tired and the combination of sleepiness and brightness created for an odd feeling. I wanted to leave because of it, to get out of here, back into the dark where my eyes felt comfortable.
But...
I stayed. Pried my eyes open. Searched for power in fuel cells that had none and managed to somehow, somewhere, someway find some.

stagger upward

There is no sunlight, not even a glimmer of sunlight peaking through the clouds to shine itself on my face, cold and half covered in mud.
I wake up to find myself lying in a dark puddle of slush. My hair is soaked and matted down with grime. My eyes burn. My jaw aches. My head throbs with a simmering pain that won't go away.
The world spins as I manage to pull my wet and freezing body from the black slush that has pooled in the gravel driveway along side the house.
I stagger upwards, to me feet. I stumble. The world turns faster and faster in dizzying speed as my feet move to carry the weight of my body that is on the verge of collapsing.
I catch myself on the wall next to me.
I close my eyes. These days I wish I could do that a little more then often.
These days....
These days I wish I could find my face on the back of a milk carton, with the word 'Missing' written in bold. That would be nice. To be lost. Because these days I find myself running from my past, a past draped in a cloak and carrying a dagger and chasing after me with every step I take.
These days the sun doesn't attempt to peak through the iron curtain of clouds above.
These days are full of puddles that a man can slip and fall into.
These days its hard not to drown in one of those puddles.
Fuck, I've been reading too much Kafka.
My eyes open and my vision is ripped from the sweet black nothingness of darkness and back to the crude reality of the world that surrounds me. I can't remember how I got here, but I know that, at some point, I had been running. My legs feel like shaky stone columns holding up the weight of the entire world.
I stagger away from the wall and walk away, then the world is spinning too fast and I need to fall and then I feel nothing, I've numbed myself to the pain, and everything is black and all I can hear is the sound of my throat opening and the sound of vomit hitting the ground under me.
Then the spinning stops and the feeling comes back and its cold and I'm only thankful that I can feel the cold and I open my eyes and push up on my arms and work my legs to get them to start walking and then I stagger upwards and away.
It's all I can do anymore.

coloring

I drew a map of Europe.
From memory. With lines in places that shouldn't have lines and other spaces lying empty, with lines needed.
Anyways, I sketched a map of Europe, that's all that I'm trying to say.
Made me think of home, of a nice place where I might be able to get away.
Maybe.
If I'm lucky.
So, I sat and I sketched a map and I thought and as I thought I sketched an image of your face, but couldn't finish because I forgot what you looked like, so I sketched your face twice.
Maybe one of them is right.
Maybe.

so, yeah

And, maybe, thats the one thing that makes us one in the same.
Disagreement.
Gandhi said once that "honest differences are often a healthy sign of progress."
He was a guy that seems to know what the hell he was talking about.
And, maybe, he's right.
He says a lot of things that seem to make sense to men.
So, yeah.
And it was nice hearing your voice. Made me think.
Of things.
Anyways, I've been drinking and this is bantor anyways, so, yeah, I'm out. Maybe I'll talk to you tomorrow, but probably not, considering what kind of day tomorrow will be.
Maybe the day after that.

hell

When I came out of the tunnel I had to squint because my eyes had adjusted to the darkness and now it was bright out and that was...different.
Darkness. Thats a bad thought. Very uncomfortable. Very.
It's tough walking through the darkness. Tough.
The darkest light is before the dawn.
Thats easy to forget.
I was living in Hollywood. Glitz and glamore and all the petty trimmings.
Wake up call. Like 6:35 in the a.m., shit it's ealry. And you want to stay in your dream.
It's tough learning life. Really is.

'Bar Scene'

The piano man plays softly, calmly, deeply.
I'm sitting and I have a drink in my hand and am starring, mesmerized, as beads of water drip from its edges and fall down and are swallowed by a small square napkin that has salt poured in the center of it so as to keep the drink from sticking to it.
"Nice of you to come," he says, walking up, and I snap back to reality and get up and shake his hand and he pulls me in and hugs me, friendly-like, and he has a good looking girl at his side whom he introduces me to and she smiles and I smile back and he goes on, "Thought you meant the lobby, we were out there for a while, waiting, that's why we're late."
"I left you a message, told you I'd be in the bar."
"Didn't get it. This is fine though, nice place, nice to see you again."
And we're talking and laughing and having drinks and the piano man is playing slowly and calmly and I'm thinking that I would love it, right now, if I could just really sit back and listen.
The girl next to him, I forgot her name to tell you the truth, is talking and as she does she reminds me a lot of another person; has a mouth like her, says the same things she does, acts like her, its odd. And she keeps talking more as she gets drunker and he laughs harder as he has more to drink and it occurs to me that I'm only on my second-no scratch that, second with these two, so I'm on my third- and not that drunk and falling behind in that race very quickly. It strikes me, at some point in our conversation, that he is a bigger drinker, now, then I am, and that's weird because it used to be the other way around and seeing him get trashed in front of me is an odd experience, well, not odd, just different.
But back to the bar scene. That's what this place is actually called, 'Bar Scene', and there is a bright blue electric sign burning those two words into the night in the window across from me. The piano man, when I came in, had a bit of a band with him. They were singing some lounge music and singing a song that I couldn't understand on account of it was in French and I don't speak French. The band has since left, though, and the piano man is lonely, playing lonely songs. I had sat down, when I came in, and waited and the waiting was nice and it gave me some time to reflect and that was nice because I haven't really had time to reflect these days. Then they came and we started drinking because that's what you do when you haven't seen someone for a long while, and we got to talking
Now the girl at his right is talking and she seems to know what she is talking about, and it seems to hit home because she's talking about things that I've been thinking about, some devils and demons, you know, the things that bring you to a place like this.
Then he talks and he says, drunkenly, "I like you, you're not afraid of people, that's why I like you."
And she follows up by saying, drunkenly, "He was talking about this earlier, he's drawn to people who aren't afraid."
I say thanks and realize that I haven't had enough to drink. So I step up the process and they talk more and this girl seems to have a knack of talking about things that remind me of my devils and my demons and that's not sitting well.
"More rounds," And I've upped the ante. Thats what demons do to man.
Soon we're all drunk and wanting to go somewhere else, "Where there's a better atmosphere," and we ask for the bill.
The waiter brings a check and I pay for all of us and start twirling the pen in between my fingers, thinking, drunk, which is bad.
I take out a sugar packet from a holder on the edge of the table, and begin to sketch and scribble a little on it.
"I wish I had crayons," I notice that I said that out loud and they're asking my what I'm talking about. Sometimes things come out when your drunk, not always the way you want them to, not always that clear for the people listening.
"Never mind." I say. "Lets go to another bar scene."

love song

Ok, so I'm sitting on the far right side of a bench, next to an old man in a grey coat, and I'd just put my phone back in my pocket, and I check the time and realize that I have no pressing engagement for a while so I'm just sitting and I'm watching a crowd of people, for no reason except for the fact that my mind is wondering and drifting and, well, honestly, it drifts so far that I'm thinking of you. Funny, kind of, and unnecessary, because you're not here, but I wish you were.
I get up and start walking and there's a cold wind and its blowing through my hair and nipping at my nose and its dusk, now, and the sun is sinking into the horizon and the sky is orange and rust, with a few clouds dotting high above, and absolutely lovely and I'm thinking how it would be better if you were here. Feels lonely without you.
The sidewalk by the canal isn't at all that lonely, though. There's people loitering and walking everywhere around it. Really, its a happening place right now.
Its cooler by the canal, more so then up further in town. And I'm thinking about how I want to wrap my arms around you and be warmed by the length of you and, maybe, hell, if I'm feeling bold, kiss you, you know, dark and long. You'd taste so sweet. That taste runs through my veins and makes me smile.
You. I could drink a case of you and still be sober and whet for more.
The wind blows hard and cold again. I shiver and pull my coat tight. A couple walks passed me and I grin at their fortune.
I stop and lean against the rail along side the canal, thinking to myself about things that are and are not and, also, should be. I sigh, my breath smoking as it escapes into the cold air.
For some reason there's this jazz song playing in my head. Bass and jazz piano and horn and drums and guitar and everything. Seems like the right thing to be playing in my head right now.
Sometimes you don't ask why.
Like why I'm thinking of you. I shouldn't be, you know. Others- many others- should take your place in the thorn bush in my head. I go ahead and grin at that thought.
A fat cloud that lingers high above can't hold any more and begins to sprinkle a flurry of soft snow flakes to the ground and the powder that begins to form is a lovely sight and there is a group of kids that seem to be enjoying it more then I am, screaming with excitement and trying to catch the falling snow flakes in their hands and mouth. I remember the news saying that its supposed to snow heavy in the morning. There's already salt on the sidewalk. The lamps lining the canal have all begun to light up. Another couple walks passed as I leave the edge of the rail and walk into the growing darkness and ever present mobs and the growing swarm of snow flakes. Really, as I step deeper into darkness, all I can see through the white blinding snow that has suddenly rushed the city is couples heading down towards the canal.
I'm thinking of you, though I shouldn't.
The thought of you leaves a taste in my mouth that is so bitter and so sweet.
If you need me, I'll be at the bar.

lost, yet to be found

I put my bag in the over head bin and take my seat, in the middle of a three seat row. The man next to me can't speak English. He asks in Spanish if we could switch seats. I shake my head because I don't understand but the woman to my right, his wife, I guess, does a better job of signing it out.
So I'm sitting in the window seat, tired as hell because I haven't had a good night's sleep in a while. So I try to sleep.
I start to doze off.
Deeper.
Deeper.
Three minutes latter the pilot gets on the speaker and goes through his spiel. It sounds like he's screaming. I'm wide awake now. I sit and listen.
"In the event of a water landing...." And my mind quickly jumps at that thought. A water landing, maybe right next to a deserted island where, when I made it from the crash, no one would be able to find me. I like that thought and I'm thinking more about it as my eyes shut in utter exhaustion from the hour of sleep I got the night before. I don't realize it, but I'm dreaming now and dreaming of the thought of me being stranded in the middle of no where and suddenly the plane jerks and I jerk and I'm awake and starring out the window at the clouds and we're high in the air now and I never even realized we took off. Funny how that works.