Waking from the worst betrayal dream I've had in a long time, there are no words. Waking one minute before my alarm was set, no recovery time. No resolution. No peace. Just the end of the trust, the end of the last vestige of hope for bonding with anyone in this life.
That is why there is no elliptical. That is why I eat the way I do lately. The way the people closest to me eat all the time. The way Americans eat. The way humans eat (I know no all and I can choose - this dream and entry may be that choice, but let's see where this goes, m'ok?). No gym. No exercise. No wisdom. No sense. No family. No friends.
Living like a refugee. A life in storage, $140 a month to keep some connection to those who once said they loved me. Is that what that is about? Bandaids over old wounds? Are they still bleeding? The dream suggests they are.
Is 2020 the year I bring all that stuff down here? And do what with it? And what condition is it in? And what condition will I be in when I look at all the stuff again? Party all alone?
These foolish games.
Rain falls outside. Eyes are blurry. The phone says it is 68 degrees. here. And 68 degrees where I work. And 68 degrees where I play ball most, where I used to live with Jackson). And 68 degrees where Jackson used to live. And 66 degrees where Jackson lives now. And 68 degrees where I lived before moving here. And 66 degrees in Orlando. And 64 degrees in Tampa. And 39 degrees in New York, where so many memories are stored. And 37 degrees in Toronto, where so much was left behind (and the storage is between the last two places). And 30 degrees in Nashville, left over from tournaments (why not Kansas City, the last big Tournament... or Ft Lauderdale, the last tournament?... no room for more places, perhaps). Forecast rain all day and is 54 degrees for tonight here.
Recovery. Shower. Work.
To be continued...
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