The Edge of Reason

Awakening is slow, and painful. Limbs twisted and mouths dry. Sleep too short, always too short and yet already restlessness pulses through the veins, and it's time to get your bearings, time to salvage whatever heart matter spilled out in the openness of the drunk Friday night and close up shop. Not regretting anything, perhaps, just regaining composure and putting the hair back up. Stumbling home along the Pulaski bridge and Manhattan is covered in gray fluffy clouds. The Good Ones are out for their runs, and it isn't strange considering it isn't even morning anymore. Memories flashing of the previous night, of the dead or dying fish in the Chinatown restaurant fishtanks. How weird it is to know something will happen someday and then to be on the verge of it. And does that mean I am now in the middle of it? The hangover affords some much needed escape from thinking, from feeling. Did that girl at the bar and I really decide to be best friends and should I maybe do something about that? Left my umbrella at that bar but it wasn't mine to begin with because it was left by someone else months ago. In the general tally of umbrellas it evens out. Perhaps I will keep my eyes out for another. My phone took a swim in some beer and refuses to write the words I aim for, so text messages went out that no mere mortal could possibly interpret, and how many shots did we drink anyways?

Still, there is something to be said for those moments when you both know. There's no need for questions or questioning. It's so strange. I know. But I knew this would happen. I know. And here we are. It's Saturday night and only my second entry and already I'm bullshitting because I haven't yet learned at what level I want to be writing. Forgive me, bear with me, stay. It gets so overwhelming being left to your own devises.