Thirty Two : Drive, Park, Run

Nothing is a genuinely new experience any more. My thirst for something different, new, out of the ordinary bites at my insides like a pack of hungry dogs. It’s more than an anxiety now, more than a want. Further down the rabbit hole than a need. Everything is gray and boring. Until I was fed up, stir crazy, out of my mind with boredom. I woke up this morning, threw on my clothes walked out the front door and drove my car into the woods. I drove for twenty five minutes before stopping. I parked on the side of a gravel and mud logging road, pulled my keys from the ignition and exited the vehicle, slipping the keys into my pocket. I shut the door, not bothering to lock it, and ran directly North into the trees. Suddenly all the colors were bright and alive. The rain drops sang their familiar love and the ground beneath me was soft and welcoming. Every branch or fallen log supported my weight as I sprang from mossy patch to fallen log to leaf and dirt and ground. Sounds had taste and substance in the air, as if you could run along it’s tail and find the source of any noise close by. To close my eyes was to see the world just as I had left it with my eyes wide open, only now in color and shape and sound, from memory, yes, but more so from sense.

Two hours later I snapped back to the reality that I had no idea where I was, found my way back to the car, and left vowing that I would return with gear and supplies to make a more prolonged visit into the silence and peace of the wood.

I’m guessing being out there is going to do a lot more good than being frowned at by all this concrete.

I wake up wrapped in the same blanket, on the same bed, in the same room. The same place. The same day, over and over and over again. No matter what I do to change it, no matter how many times I try every minor detail in place of another. The numbers on the calender change, of course; my computer takes no shit when telling me the time. Nor my cell phone, awful bastard that it is. November into December, January following closely behind on Decembers coat tails; ringing in the new year. On to February next and finally March. March goose stepping to, past, and onward like a war parade so April can finally show it’s magnificent, glowing face. The Spring returning the signs of summer, life slowly burning brighter beneath the remaining sheets of winters tears and ice. The end of purgatory. The start of a new season.

Another lonely gray hair plucked from my beard as I study the lines on my face in the mirror. When did this show up? I trace a line on my cheek with my fingertip and open one eye wide, my face nearly pressed up against the glass in order to more closely observe the signs of age creeping in on my visible skin. The dark rings around, but mainly under, my eyes. Black eye purple loops that fade in and out like warning beacons of the choices I’m making. Sleep more tonight -or- I guess it’s alright to stay up entirely too late.

I wonder what my face looks like without this beard. Would I drop five to ten years? Would I get carded again for cancer and poison?

I shake the thought from my mind and laugh, loudly, like a man. Or at least what I think a man should laugh like.

I stare at myself in the mirror with the wonder of a boy.


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