Just don’t seem to have as much to lose

I wonder how many nights, in all, have ended just like this.

Driving home along 13, or 580, or across the bridge, looking out at the sea of little orange Bay Area lights. I dunno.

Being completely nocturnal has shaped me in to a very different sort of creature, I think. Paranoid Android blaring, speeding along all the familiar freeways under the purple sky, it’s rhythmic. Common. Nostalgic, but for what?

Scientists define the speed of light as its velocity in a vacuum. Drifting along the quiet freeway, three AM and nowhere to go and no one to go there with. That’s when things are the way they really are. The rest, the day light and the phone bills and the winning smiles and the awkward silences, that’s all just the medium. The truth of the thing doesn’t come out until you’re speeding alone through the empty dark. Everything else is just tricks and nonsense. Absence is purity.

Nights like tonight might be common, but that doesn’t make them any more comprehensible. It’s all too abstract, too opaque to make any sense, or at least to make any sense in a communicable way. When the love is long gone and the hate, the hate just runs out, what are you left with. Whatever it is, it’s doing 80 through the Piedmont woods in the dead of the night. It’s true, kids. Some nights even I am too tired to hate.

So I cruise along, looking out over my city. Passing the three gaudy crosses which loom over the 238 interchange, beige tombstones, towering and hideous. Skirting around the speeding, thrashed buicks which flail their way onto the early morning highway out of West Oakland, headed for parts unknown. Creeping along Maud, remembering a way things never were. Fuck.

Tomorrow it’ll be sunny. Tomorrow will be all radio commercials and dirty dishes and voicemails, and tonight will just be another weird dark gap in a mind full of weird dark gaps.

I’m fairly certain none of this makes any sense to any of you.

I’m learning to live with that.



One Response to “Just don’t seem to have as much to lose”

  1. This is not just a comment to acknowledge the existence of the comment section, void as it seems to be. This comment holds more meaningful ends; purpose beyond reason. Dedicated.

    It seems that writers are sufferers, but the causality may be unclear. Whether by their own interpretation of the moments they live or by the very nature of said events, writers consistently perceive their own suffering. Some go to great lengths to find that muse, duty-bound to live through every inch of the pain that is rightfully theirs to experience, while others hate the fabric of existence that guides them into misery and darkness and forces them to vomit words, feeling and reason onto paper in order to survive…

    But one thing is clear: whatever their feeling on the events, conditions or circumstances leading to the suffering, writers enjoy the suffering itself. They need it, they almost seem to create it.

    Suffering, and GOOD, SOLID writing.

    Whether it is escapable can and should be argued, and whether one causes the other probably depends on the variety of human that one finds beneath the flesh.

    As a human, I judge others, and try to leave my own judgment in more capable hands…but you, my friend, are good. Very, very good.

    -P (B./G./P.)

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