Sprouting Wings

A few months ago, I noticed that I haven’t written or produced anything for myself in a long time. It isn’t necessarily a rut, as I have all of the time in the world to direct and contemplate. The problem is more subtle. I blame happiness for this one.

I also blame the continuing stream of restaurant work, nicotine, alcohol, poor lifestyle choices, myself, the government, the coming apocalypse, the Kardashians, the emptiness in my life created by the three months before the new Breaking Bad season comes out, a lack of direction, the lack of good music, the plethora of ostensible new friends that end up coming and going, and the endless stream of excuses I feed myself. 

I think I need to make some changes. 

An uncertain dash of sunlight breaks through shutter cracks, scattering tremulously through the room. The silence is interrupted only by the passing of cars; by ordinary people that keep ordinary hours. 

They stop at gas stations, they avoid gazes on the bus, they accelerate at yellow lights, they smoke cigarettes nervously in traffic, their eyes wander impatiently in coffee shop lines, their heels click rhythmically on the asphalt. 

We just sleep.

The passing of hours. The feeling of warmth, of purity, of the mosquito netting brushing against skin. 

Your hand is on my shoulder.