the finer line

It may feel senseless writing a hundred words a minute trying to get the things inside, out. It may feel senseless doing this as a man nearing middle age. It may feel deathly.  

Each time I look out the window, I see winter. Gray, fast-moving clouds in mid-summer. This is the appetite for depression. 

Couldn’t stand it for too long so I got out of there. Went west, that’s what they say. Went west and started all over, as they do. This is the best thing for me. A fresh start and the sunset like I’ve never seen over the three thousand miles behind me. 

When I got there, I rented a motel room for a week. I never knew the name. Never paid attention.

When I got there, I started drinking. You have to understand the complexity of this. I started drinking like all drinking before that point was practice. I started truly drinking. 

This was the exact thing I needed. In the mornings, I would walk a few blocks and buy a taco and a Coke. Somehow, that was all I needed. Then, I’d stroll around the dusty street, loiter on corners, in front of soda-fountain pharmacies and the main street cinema. All things I’ve seen in movies and all things drying up against the whitewashed wall of the modern world.  

Back in my room, I’d open the curtains and pour a whiskey and ice. I’d position the chair in front of the window so I could watch people passing by or walking to their rooms. The comfort I got from this was warm and electric. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt so content. I was finally surrounded by a nothingness that made sense.