Welcome To My Bed

Just conjecture.

Listening to Akron/Family and wondering about my own family. I am not going immediately home for Christmas. I am driving to a place I have never been in Connecticut to sleep in a house that is not mine with a person I did not know a month ago.

I've been thinking a lot lately about how different life is since this time last year, when I was still living at home and pretending that I was okay with that. It's strange, but most of the time I can't remember the specifics of where I was, who I was with, or what exactly I was doing. I wish things weren't so murky in my memory.

I might be moving again, for the second time since September, and it's strange to imagine dealing with all this upheaval so seamlessly. I might be moving to LA for the summer. Southern California is foreign, three thousand miles and change from everything that I know, and it scares me, but I want it anyway. I could happily waitress all night and sleep in the mornings. I could happily share an apartment with my intermediate perfection and his best friend. I could happily live away from the familiar. Tempting, but is it intelligent? Just like moving now. I want to, more than anything. I want to push the two twins beds together and pretend we have a real place to call our own. I want to eat pasta in bed and watch the Office and count hickies like stars in the sky and smoke out the bedroom window and keep reading him the poetry I write him on bar napkins and library hold slips and stolen notebook pages. I know that we already do all of this, and I smile about it more than I've smiled since I learned how to frown. But I want that smile to be my physical home. I want to play house, but for real.

Things move fast and I lose track of time. If I were take anything slow in life, I wouldn't be myself. I fall out the sky and into the lower level of the Cantab Lounge in Cambridge, and it's there that I realize what's been missing. I can write again, but only now that I'm hearing people read again. I need things to respond to. Stimulus. Catalyst. Incitement to greatness. Or at least urges to fill my notebooks again. It's back. Along with headaches and deadlines. But they have ceased to matter. Because things just keep shifting and changing I can't stay in one place I can't close my eyes and forget this is real because it's the only thing that keeps me awake when I'm running on three hours of sleep and one meal a day.

I don't eat when I'm happy, and I've pretty much stopped eating anything substantial. I had Chinese tonight next to the Hess station as Grace Ann's farewell dinner before she flies off the Richmond for the rest of this year and several days of the next. Apropos fortune cookie: "If it is meant to be, who are you to change that? It's time to believe it."

A sign. Or something. What I needed, and now it rests in my pocket, with my lighter and a couple lucky pennies. A slip of hope I dare not lose. It's the only concrete proof that I'm doing something right, besides a bruised neck, a warm bed to sleep in, and a permanent smile that's anything but fake.