(50//365) Sometimes I wake and still have trouble remembering where I am. Sometimes the darkness is both liberating and suffocating. Sometimes I can still hear the melancholy notes of High Hopes partnered with the lingering aroma of pot and Camel cigarettes seeping through the crack underneath my bedroom door. There was a ragged band that followed in our footsteps. Running before time took our dreams away. Leaving the myriad small creatures trying to tie us to the ground. To a life consumed by slow decay. And you were always there, the silhouette stained to the dirty yellow-tinged lampshade drowning in cheap beer and unyielding sorrow. Sometimes just on the verge of granting us a life with a little less deprivation and a life of total and regrettable tragedy. The former always at violent war with the latter; the latter the indisputable victor.
Sometimes. Sometimes you were always there. Until you weren't.
And I'm very frighteningly approaching the rest-stop at the halfway point of my own life. (Your presence and absence severing me into two imperfectly even and worn pieces.) But there'll be no resting here.