A star streaks through forgotten sky. Ignites excitement. For an instant. Then is gone. There are other lights. An amber one flickering from a wire over the intersection at the corner of our block. A lonely fluorescent bulb dangling above the porch across the street. And red anti-collision lights flashing up high—a plane moving people through darkness on a Wednesday in April at 1:17 am.
It’s 33 degrees. I’m drunk from big glasses of red blend box wine. Tired from too many tedious hours. And a little lost because I’ve miraculously made it to midlife alive, and without ever being in the moment. Even with all the gifts I’ve got.
I’ve conditioned myself never to stray. Eyes straight ahead. To work, the pick-up, the drop-off, the kids’ games, the drive-thru, the grocery store, the dinner table. And always home on time. I do whatever needs doing whenever it needs to be done. And when there’s a moment to rest, I feel uneasy. Like I could run. But this is where I belong. I know it. So, I stay. And I drink and I write. And when my wife and kids go to bed, I drink and write some more.
I have so much to say, but I’m ashamed for people to hear it. My words are too simple to explain. So, they’ll fear it. This staccato talk.
Those that could understand have gone. I’ve burnt them out. Faded them away. Made them distant, fuzzy memories. Or I never really knew them at all.
I’m so deep into making ends meet and overlap so that the ones I love have more than they need that I don’t remember what keeps me fine. So, an undisclosed ache grows. The awareness is unbearable. Day by day, layer by layer, all I believed would be breaks into little brittle pieces that are easily ground to dust.
The cycle never stops. It only repeats when I wake. Hungover from drinking to forget how sad it is that a man with so much finds so little when he is alone in the dark searching the sky.
~ KJ
copyright 2024 © KJ Stevens
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