I don’t know.
Some people have puke-colored dreams and some have sleek, monotone nightmares. Me? I never dream; and maybe that’s why I try to dream when I’m wide awake.
Every morning, I always make my bed. I figured, if I can fix that then I’m already ahead in the scorecards—I would’ve done something right already even before I left.
I know my sickness is intact and I know I’ll never get better. I know tears are always black and white so I date foreign girls to compensate for color.
They tell me to go to the doctor. But I hate going to the doctor because I always need a tetanus shot for touching my rusty halo too much.
They tell me to go to the bank. But I hate going to the bank because my credit history is chronicled by the certified pre-owned mistakes my father made, and the subprime loans my mother had to take.
I don’t live in the grid anymore because to do so is to be a child. Now I live outside the trending societal lines, chasing torrents in the desert where the blue meets the red beyond the bird-punctuated power lines.
I no longer function for expression but rather for the experience. Because when you can no longer locate yourself via GPS and the signal is weak, and you can no longer feel the effects of the drugs you keep, you come to realize that your heart is the only thing that can get you through the day.
Having said that—growing in the moment and losing in the split-second—there are days when nothing works and I just barely break even.
I know I have always been one of them even though I was never one of them. And though I would really like to believe it, I was never an outsider because I have always been inside, taking notes at the center.
And when the rabid calm of the wind breaks and the storm passes over, I move on to another and find something else to chase after.
“Like a dog without a bone,
an actor on a loan,
riders on the storm.
There’s a killer on the road…” —The Doors