|
|
|
It was, all in all, a failed attempt to unwind.
I’m leaving an apartment full of strangers, all drinking their keg beer and Jack Daniels, belligerently making friends, enemies, lovers, none of which last past the morning light. I feel sick, and cannot bring myself further into sickness in order to partake in their revelries, though some more primal, more social part of me cries out to, to take part in their co-ed bacchanalias and feel, for a time, headily intoxicated and free of myself.
Instead, I trudge through snow, poorly dressed; I had planned on making the walk back with a liquid overcoat, but instead I am in a blazer with a scarf, my t-shirt at the whim of the elements, and the elements see fit to precipitate upon me. I look down; I am covered in a thin veneer of snow, unnoticeable as it accumulates, but unrelenting. I feel more at ease with the snow than the people tonight, soft and cold and quiet. Friends peered at me questioningly as I stood on the porch, cigarette-less, obviously not one of the usual regulars on the outside. Inside it is too hot, too loud, to stay for very long without the sour taste of beer and bile to begin intermingling in my mouth. I hope that if my stomach decides to rebel, I’ll be able to make it to the bathroom in time; the last thing these people, or I, need is to see some lightweight in a blazer making a fool of himself, or be that fool in the blazer ejecting his half-dinner onto the floor.
She didn’t understand. She asked whether she should come, whether I wanted her to come. If she had wanted to come, I would have nodded yes in a heartbeat. But I would rather sit alone in an empty bedroom feeling shitty than lie with her in a bed, feeling shitty because I know she would be elsewhere if not burdened by me. I feel like this will become an argument later, and some tired part of me doesn’t care. I am unable to feel content anymore; I’ve romanticized my old angst-ridden walks and pine for them, even as I think that as soon as I am alone, I will miss the feeling of sharing a single bed, the touch of her hands on my shoulders, the whispered promises and dreams. I get more than my fill of angst-ridden walks as it is; I am never more than five minutes away from where I need to be, and yet every time, I peer deeply into my soul and find myself wanting.
There seems to be something in the air here, something subtly depressing, that when taken in large quantities turns the mind to darker affairs. Sometimes I can get away with it, and peer upon the snow-capped peaks that surround me and be glad to be alive, and look to the future with a smile.
Tonight, however, I am drawn back to New Year’s Eve, driving home in the wee hours of the morning, sick of watching my friends all coupled and canoodling when she is hours away, wanting nothing more than to climb into her bed and have her hold me and tell me that everything is all right; but this is a pipe dream, she doesn’t even know anything is wrong, and I don’t even know what is wrong, so communication isn’t an option either. I just clutch the wheel, wondering when the heat is going to kick in and whether or not the promised snowstorm is going to begin, or if it’s just going to menace in the sky above until it blows over.
And as I think about New Year’s, my mind, through association, is drawn towards another lonely drive that possessed my mind as I drove home that night. The roads were practically empty, everyone still trying to unbury themselves from the true nor’easter that had stranded me at her house an extra day on my way home from school. It is only myself and tractor-trailers on the road, and as I drive, I watch as the trucks clear themselves of snow, shedding massive, man-sized sheets of packed ice from their tops, like behemoths waking from their arctic slumbers; the sheets turn in the air for a little while, before landing upon the highway, shattering into a cloud of dust.
I couldn’t explain why, but it was the loneliest thing I had ever seen.
 Jelloarm · Mon Jan 21, 2008 @ 07:31pm · 3 Comments |
|
|
|
|
|
