Everybody Knows This is Nowhere

It is a night of whiskey headaches and bullshit. I have a flight back up to work in a couple of hours and I should probably be asleep. I’m not sleeping yet, because sleep won’t change anything. If I am to dream then I will dream of somewhere else and thinking about somewhere else isn’t healthy when your path forces you to go to the place that you don’t want to go.

So I’m drinking whiskey, and all it’s going to give me is a light headache and twenty minutes or so of unplanned dozing before a 6 am flight to nowhere. A break from myself poured out of a green bottle into a borrowed glass.

No use fighting it now. So I just pour, and now I just hope that sleep finds me as easily as I find reasons to hate myself and the job I have and where I have to go and all the steps in between that just make me tired to think about.

For awhile, I kept cards that she wrote to me when we weren’t together. I would stuff them into my backpack or place them around my room up north as reminders that someone out there wanted me to not be here, and that there was something waiting for me back where home was. I stopped doing that though, because her prose made it sound like I had died.

The next day I wake up groggy from sleep in my camp bed at 4 p.m. There is dust on my pillow from the window that I left open. I had dreamed of driving a Mercedes down open highways. A dream that would normally send my soul to a happy place, but all it did this time was remind me that I’m not on an open highway, and I’m not feeling the wind in my hair.

Also, I don’t own a fucking Mercedes. I don’t even own a car.

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