Without Direction

It would’ve been a few years of consistency, complacency and all around mundane living, but his interior had other plans. Something warped on the reclusive side of his mind and there was a strength that came with the change. A strength that could not be matched or surpassed. The lower, lurking recesses of his thoughts grew. Broader, bolder, unabashed in their assault on the tender and comforting side of his psychosis. So what once was a balancing act became an incline and it was his to climb. Like Sisyphus, forever against the weight of his own missteps and mistakes. Forever and a day.

Oh so tragic. What a lamentful fate. It’ll be all right, though. He’s fine. Heading toward middle age at a steady pace. He’s not afraid. Happy to be back. That’s how he looks at life these days. He was never gone for very long, but, when he did leave, he went far. He went deep. The wretched darkness that was steadily taking hold of the mind that he so desperately needed peace from…ah hell, let’s not dwell. He’s fine. Does his job. Has his routines. Keeps living. Keep living. Forever moving. Bouncing back and forth or pacing around the rooms. His hands are shaking lately. There’s a buzzing in his ears. His eyes are wide and his mind… his mind…

Breathe. Something doesn’t feel right throughout the nights. He’s always awake and forever on the move. Sometimes he’ll drive when he can’t think of a thing to do. Work is ok. No, really. Work is great! Let’s talk about something else.

Who needs love when there’s blood in your own veins. Who needs affection when you can focus your intention. Who needs air when there’s no one there to share it with? Woops, there’s that darkness, taking over the light. It was a beautiful thought process for a spell, but the truth be told is, when he feels old, he feels alone. Not sad. Just somber. Not angry. A little upset. Not anywhere near good, but he wouldn’t say he feels bad. He wouldn’t dare say a word. No one gives a good goddamn. That’s the darkness talking again.

It’s nice to live life behind the wheel. Flying by at an even pace, slow enough to take the world in but no one gets a good look at him. His car could be better, but that’s a standard descriptor for his life. He’ll get another. Someday. Money isn’t permanent. He’s always saving and spending, collecting and throwing away. He hates it. Currency is a societal construct. A flawed system. Paper and numbers that drive people insane. Where’s the value?

So he was driving. That’s what he was doing. He was going… somewhere. Anywhere, really. Then he would turn around and try a different road home. The old back roads triggered memories. Brought songs to mind. Drives from his youth. Sitting in the back seat with music blasting through his skull. Now the drives were his alone. No family. No friends. These weren’t road trips or missions. These drives were something else. A waste of time… quiet the darkness! These drives were a useful, essential step up the hill. He needed them to think. To lose himself in himself. Without direction. Actively inactive. Flying down hills and around bends, his feet barely touching the pedals. Letting the world take him wherever it would.

So he was driving. It had been a while and the old “go home” itch was starting to kick in. Time for a pit stop. He put a few bucks in his gas tank and grabbed a coffee. The plan was to get home, refreshed and renewed, and clean and exercise and fill his life with meaning. He customarily burnt his tongue on the first sip. It just doesn’t taste right unless you have to fight through the pain to get to the flavor. Such a burnt, bold and all around awful cup of the good stuff. He was in love.

The road home was winding and he was letting his instincts take the wheel. New music was coming through the airwaves and his mind was screaming for something different. Something that felt as old as he did. He searched the stations for a familiar tune and found an old country singer. One of the wild ones. One of those sad cowboy western heroes. Good stuff. He found himself singing along now and then. It was… a relief.

Home was empty. That’s an exaggeration. Home was overflowing with nonsense. Things collected over time. His entire life on display. That’s what a home is meant to be, right? Live in your own space. A personification of yourself. Well, what if you hate yourself? Should you hate your home? Does he hate his home? Sometimes. Yes. absolutely.

Tonight could be different. He was just killing time on the drive. He still had an hour or so before he needed to be ready. Lately, he hadn’t been keeping alcohol in the house, so that was good. He poured the coffee from the lovely styrofoam he had begrudgingly brought into his home and it filled a clear, glass, pristine mug with it putrid, burnt, stale gloriousness.

The weather was nice enough for some time outside. Caffeine compounded with the relief of the drive created a nice, euphoric glow in his soul. He let the feeling persist, despite the darkness howling against the light. He listened to the soft sounds of outside life. His constantly wandering mind focused on the night ahead. There was to be a conversation. An argument, if you will. Two sides to every story, so they say.

Sitting comfortably, quietly on his steps. Outside his apartment. Staring at his small plot of a lawn and his wreck of a vehicle. Thinking about straightening up the subtle mess in his space. Thinking about dusting. Thinking about what the hell she will possibly say to him after all this time. It’s only an hour. 60 minutes. Some seconds. Time. He still has time to kill and this killing time is killing him. Months and months of relative radio silence… he shouldn’t get into it. It’s been too long. He needs to approach tonight with his open and understanding side. He can’t let the darkness take the lead. He can’t be closed off and angry. Not to her.

The wind picked up. The sun stepped down in the sky. A breath of fresh air and a sedentary moment were all he needed, so he downed the last of the disgusting black brew and went back inside. The dishes of the day were waiting, so that was a task. First thing he saw. When that was done and nothing could be said of it, he almost felt a sense of pride. There was an empty shelf over the sink. It used to be filled with trinkets, spices and a photo on a beach with two people and a ring, but that picture didn’t exist for him anymore. To be true, none of it did, but he was processing something, and he needed to feel at home for a time. Letting himself get lost in the past wasn’t the right solution, but it helped a little. Reminded him that there was more to life. To him. To hold onto.

It would be a walk to his next destination. They didn’t live far from each other, but she wanted to go somewhere neutral. Somewhere without power or influence. Generally speaking, they didn’t go to his place. She preferred to be at home. In power. Safe. he got it. Ain’t no thing, but he picked their meeting place and he DID feel incredibly comfortable at the ol’ dive. He walked slowly, steadily, uphill and downhill. Over a bridge. Under a weeping willow. It was a walk, to be sure.

The ol’ place was swinging. Not really. There was a big group at the big table. There were a few old posts at the bar. Couples at tables. He grabbed his usual stool, ordered his usual tequila with club soda and a lime, and eyed his favorite booth for when you-know-who arrived. With the comfort of a regular, he signaled his bartender friend, gave a brief synopsis of where his evening was going and how the tab would be handled, and he made his way around the small crowd and to *his* booth.

He’d had a fair share of severe conversations at bars at this point. There was an etiquette to it. The severity of the situation dictated the location. This bar in particular had seen him at every stage of life, and he was eager to see what happened next. Who he would become. He needed to be unapologetically himself in this moment. He needed to represent the years and years that led him to this booth. He couldn’t see through the darkness anymore and she… oh she… she had a light to her. Effulgence. He didn’t want to want her. He knew in his soul that he did not “need” her. There was that old four letter word putting other word behind itself. Fighting desperately through the darkness and attaching itself to ever passing beam of light. It was hope. Love. that damn word. He loved her.

Hold on, hold on. They weren’t in love with each other. Not yet. They shared a good deal of affection and had crossed state lines and other lines together. It all felt so right. Right? So… like… why’d she disappear on him for months? He was still confused and trying to not look at the past. Tonight. Tonight, tonight… tonight. He was looking forward. Ready and raring to go. He just needed her… to show...