The night breeze is cold and pleasant compared to what felt like being microwaved earlier that afternoon.
My feet ache and I wish I could just take off and fly home, soar through the night like some minimum wage earning owl.
The darkness and privacy of the long walk spark a slight madness in me.
suddenly I wonder if it's only because I know I can't fly that's stopping me from doing so. Maybe it's just a matter of baby steps.
I walk under a tree and see a branch that's just out of reach.
I know that if I jump high enough I'll reach it.
So I do
. And then under the next tree I look for a branch that's slightly higher then that. Each time I leap and gain just enough height to touch the next dangling leaf, allowing the limit of how high I know I can jump to grow. Every time just a little bit higher.
But reality is the most vivid dream of all and the ache in my feet is now a throbbing.
I snap out of my optimistic madness and resign myself to the earth, allowing myself once again to be oppressed by the truth of the world rather then the truth of my soul.
My destination isn't my shared room where the only things that belong to me are my sheets and laundry,
but my car,
a messy thing with cracks in the windshield, rust on the frame and a dent in the trunk the will never let it truly close completely, a beast that screams and whines if I pull the wheel too far to each side, a car that is a deeper reflection of myself then any mirror could be,
it's also where I left my cigarettes.
I finally reach where she's parked outside the apartment.
I climb into the passenger's side because the window on the driver's side won't open.
I light a cigarette and switch on the radio. Someone is reading poetry.
I'm filled with a moment of pure melancholic masturbatory satisfaction. I catch a glimpse of myself in the door mirror.
I look like douch bag.