We drunk. We drank like animals. The pitter-patter of feet, the sound of a girl puking in another room. Johnny Depp narrating in my head. It's funny how we take ourselves to places that we're not. For example, I'm on a train, the reader has no idea whether we're moving forward or back. Neither do I. But into the darkness, together, we roll. Rain all a drip drip, travelers on a journey that has an end. My ideas are like water, sloshing around in my head, filling my ears till I have to scratch and claw only to get a trickle out, and then wonder, why was it all such a big deal. There's poetry in train tracks, but I wonder if my children will ever hear it. I suppose I ought to say what it is I'm writing about, some statement of intent, a personal introduction, offer up the grim familiarity of purpose. But.
I look into the dark, I look to find something, but I don't know what it is. I don't know why it is that we look into the dark expecting to find anything at all. I close my eyes, and I look into the dark. I look for a solution, maybe even a solace. I'm traveling, that's all I can say, like osmosis, it's not a complete movement. I leave pieces of myself behind. I suppose it's more like a spreading than a moving. And my writing is more like a dance than a theater.
We drank, we drank until midnight.
