Welcome To My Bed

When I wake in the night on the verge of a road trip, you get this.

There are many parts of me.

The biggest part is a sleepy mess, scared shitless. But she has faith. Faith that today will be okay, and that tomorrow will be something else, and the next day after another breed, and so on. She is trying to be open to all possibilities. Thus far, the shows have been going well. We've performed our best across several states already and made friends, sold merch, and the biggest part of me is hoping we make it through the rest of the month in similar fashion. If thigs could go the way they went in Manchester or Jersey consistently, the biggest part of me will also be the proudest part of me.

But the biggest part of me isn't the largest part of me. There's a sizable chunk that's scared shitless. She's the one who hasn't written anything substantial in who knows how long. She's the one making excuses. I did just finish the better part of a novella and complete a pretty decent manuscript of poems, she mutters when confronted.

The cynical piece of me lights a cigarette and blows smoke in her face.

The biggest part of me sighs.

The navigator is pouring over her maps. She woke me up at this ungodly hour with endless dreams of road, of digging the car out of the snow in a few hours and hitting the dusty trail. She's the one who put us to bed far too early last night and then shook us all good and hard just now with the urge to run to the window and press our communal nose to it in excitement. "It's stopped blizzarding!" she squeals.

The worrier is revising her lists. The insomniac is creeping back. The smoker is lighting another one.

We're all chewing our bottom lip, waiting for something to happen.