Six months of winter, three months off

The paycheck came in the mail, but never mind that.
It was never really about the money. Or business as usual.
No, something else, deeper, more attractive, more elusive, definately more unusual.
Adventure, and a lack there of.
Across the country, on the other end of the line, she's asking me why I don't sell out, get a 9-to-5, a cubical, some office furniture, a fake plant -- likely a fern -- a coffee maker (and a taste for coffee to go with it), a $125 office chair and maybe one of those squshy seat cushion things to go with it. I wonder why I would want any of that.
"Walking shoes would be better spent for my money," I say, because, no, it was never really about the money, or spending it on uselessness.
Wallets are what we're talking about, then, and how hers is by some designer, but actually a knock off, and how it cost less than what it actually looks.
"Something cheap that looks great."
"In this economy, that's what you shoot for."
She tells me she's in Las Vegas and has $45 of $550 she brought with her.
"Just gambled it all away."
And I smile.
"Roll the dice once for me," I say, and my voice wanders as I wonder.
I think my wonders are lost with the enthusiasm of it all. I think my words are lost in the whole meaningless of it all.
Since the winter I can't really think straight. Like something is inhibiting the thought process. Maybe it's the warm weather. Heat makes you content. And I'm content and I hate it. I feel like lately I've really lost the lust for life that Iggy Pop so passionatly called for.
"And that's my soul."
It all seemed better in Europe six months ago.
I tell her I want another job, something like Europe-six-months-ago, with soldiers and bombs and guns and intrigue and adventure and enthusiasm and fireworks and victories and early mornings and late nights that were all spent in the advancement of society.
And passion, too.
I feel I've lost passion.
She asks me if I've ever had it in the first place.
"At some point. That time we were looking at the stars on your roof."
"How do you lose passion in six months?"
"I guess I just came back."
Six months ago I embarked on the greatest adventure yet, and the philosophies were tested. Then I came back and when I was coming back I knew I would hate to be back once I got back. I remember the moment. I was driving on the autobahn.
It's strange, but I remember that I could think straight those days. Maybe because it was cold. The sharp breeze always keeps you on your toes.
Now I feel I can't even write straight. Like I've had three months off and I haven't done a damn thing, just laid there, let my soul, my mind, my body, my existence atrophy.
The writing is the reflection.
Really, it's become one of those frame stories, a story mirroring a story mirrored in a story. Like "Fall of the House of Usher".
"You've always seemed to have a way to find passion around midnight," she says.
"What does that mean?"
The wind outside begins to blow harder and as it sprays me, I wonder if this is the end.
"Never could get you off my mind," she says.
And I smile, concealed as we talk, and I tell her I don't feel alive anymore and she laughs. Then I laugh, darkly. She's the dozenth person I've told that to who has laughed.
"Around here everything isn't too serious."
"In Vegas?"
"I wish I had your job."
"To make up the $515?"
"Among other things."
"You wouldn't be happy with my job, there's so much more out there."
"It wouldn't be bad to have the $515 again."
"It was never really about the money."
"I'm happy you got your money in the mail."
I sigh.
"Yeah, me too."
And she laughs.
"There are two great tragedies in life; one is when you lose your heart's passion. The other is when you find it. That's what Gorge Bernard Shaw said."
"How did he know?"
"Must have known somehow."
"I guess you really do just know when you know."
Six months ago U.S. Airways flight 842 flew into Lexington, Ky., from Charlotte, N.C., the final connecting flight from Frankfurt, Germany, and stepping off at Blue Grass Airport I knew I'd lost something.