.ease down that dirt road
You get into the shower. It has been too long. Since you wrote, not since you showered. You did the bathing thing yesterday; at least, now, with a world gone away, you do remember the basics. A passing glance at yourself lets you know that a razor is in your future, but maybe at some point when it might matter. Today, nobody will judge you for looking like you do. Aimlessly, you wander through your medicine cabinet and find one of the Last Casualty’s eyeliner pencils hiding behind a box of Q-Tips.
When she left the eyeliner, she was the Girl. Now, the Last Casualty is just that - a mournful echo of a life you have just grown out of. You look for some measure of poetry, some sense of a higher meaning in the last few lost tracts of time. Restless nights are par for the course - you have plenty of chances to find deeper meaning. All you come to understand is that sometimes pain is merely pain. At this point, even that idea is not worth
The water runs over your face, down your back - a back that somehow has managed to be defeated by the act of sleeping; the soreness beneath your left scapula hasn’t subsided in two days. You reach across your chest with your right arm, moving to massage your left shoulder. This gives you the perfect vantage point to view the bruise on your forearm that has somehow appeared since the last time you looked at your forearm. You aren’t really sure when that was, though, so you don’t feel too bad about it. You pause a moment to listen to the lyrics playing on the laptop a few feet away…
“Ease on that dirt road
You've still a ways to go
Soak in sights and city lights
While you still can borrow
Cursed fall we'll find you
And bring a memory
The ghost of her surrender
And a kiss of anarchy
She's naked at my door
Vanity cries, why?
Vanity wants everything and more
Vanity must die”
You always liked that song. It was off of the giant middle finger of an album your favorite band gave to their label when the label threatened a breach of contract suit. It’s not an album that will ever find any sort of popular play, but that’s okay by you. You love the lyrics, the wall of sound, everything about how the sound makes the moment feel. It’s just like how you loved her, and like you now love yourself.
You drip in the shower, forgoing a towel for a brisk walk into your bedroom. Water streaks down you; the streaks in turn are kissed by currents of air flowing through your apartment. The slight chill feels good - it’s slightly warm in your apartment. A momentary towel tango leaves you feeling sufficiently dry to dress in a light shirt and pair of shorts. Your brain jumps around in preparation for leaving.Pills: vitamins, fish oil, methylphenidate. Keys? Check. Wallet, phone, sunglasses too. You pick up the laptop, and leave. It’s time to mix stimulants.
****
Upon your arrival at the caffeine shack, your eyes appraise the scene: pretty normal, pretty quiet, pretty perfect. You get some tea, walk next door for a turkey sandwich, and settle down into one of your normal spots. Soon after, one quarter of a barbershop quartet (complete with straw hat!) sits in the seat next to you. He has a book called ‘Gandhi and Churchill’; a look behind his quaint tortoiseshell frames show blue eyes that scan the room almost as fast as he skims his book. Today will be good for you, if only because you have such a poorly upholstered paranoiac to distract you from the more mundane parts of the next little while.
When she left the eyeliner, she was the Girl. Now, the Last Casualty is just that - a mournful echo of a life you have just grown out of. You look for some measure of poetry, some sense of a higher meaning in the last few lost tracts of time. Restless nights are par for the course - you have plenty of chances to find deeper meaning. All you come to understand is that sometimes pain is merely pain. At this point, even that idea is not worth
The water runs over your face, down your back - a back that somehow has managed to be defeated by the act of sleeping; the soreness beneath your left scapula hasn’t subsided in two days. You reach across your chest with your right arm, moving to massage your left shoulder. This gives you the perfect vantage point to view the bruise on your forearm that has somehow appeared since the last time you looked at your forearm. You aren’t really sure when that was, though, so you don’t feel too bad about it. You pause a moment to listen to the lyrics playing on the laptop a few feet away…
“Ease on that dirt road
You've still a ways to go
Soak in sights and city lights
While you still can borrow
Cursed fall we'll find you
And bring a memory
The ghost of her surrender
And a kiss of anarchy
She's naked at my door
Vanity cries, why?
Vanity wants everything and more
Vanity must die”
You always liked that song. It was off of the giant middle finger of an album your favorite band gave to their label when the label threatened a breach of contract suit. It’s not an album that will ever find any sort of popular play, but that’s okay by you. You love the lyrics, the wall of sound, everything about how the sound makes the moment feel. It’s just like how you loved her, and like you now love yourself.
You drip in the shower, forgoing a towel for a brisk walk into your bedroom. Water streaks down you; the streaks in turn are kissed by currents of air flowing through your apartment. The slight chill feels good - it’s slightly warm in your apartment. A momentary towel tango leaves you feeling sufficiently dry to dress in a light shirt and pair of shorts. Your brain jumps around in preparation for leaving.Pills: vitamins, fish oil, methylphenidate. Keys? Check. Wallet, phone, sunglasses too. You pick up the laptop, and leave. It’s time to mix stimulants.
****
Upon your arrival at the caffeine shack, your eyes appraise the scene: pretty normal, pretty quiet, pretty perfect. You get some tea, walk next door for a turkey sandwich, and settle down into one of your normal spots. Soon after, one quarter of a barbershop quartet (complete with straw hat!) sits in the seat next to you. He has a book called ‘Gandhi and Churchill’; a look behind his quaint tortoiseshell frames show blue eyes that scan the room almost as fast as he skims his book. Today will be good for you, if only because you have such a poorly upholstered paranoiac to distract you from the more mundane parts of the next little while.