It’s 8:00 in the morning here… 3am at home- and everyone is asleep- I can feel it. The safety net of home is 3,549 miles away, an empty bed that used to fit me comfortably. A six hour drive north sits an empty bed in a room full of life- neatly packaged in cardboard boxes. It’s a Bukowski morning and I feel a bit like a ghost. Strange, how some days you can feel like your are on top of the world, one of those days where it is easy to imagine a life with theme music; and then there are the other days when you wake up and even a sunny day is no consolation to loneliness. The dust has settled a bit and I suppose I am a bit too comfortable- it’s that deceptive sort of comfort that allows you to waste a day here and there… a 24 hours without a receipt.
I woke up slowly today.
I think next week is a good time to rattle my cage, kick up the dust with a train ticket and the promise of an adventure. It’s a Bukowski morning and I feel like tonight is a good night for a drink.