Gehenna

A quiet fog lies across my eyelids; it is light, not unpleasant. My limbs follow a similar lethargy, slowly sifting around the room trying to clean up the inexplicable mess of the late night. How much wine was consumed, how many cigarettes smoked, in between the carefully scripted lines of truth that evaporated into the cold night air through an open window. Their remains lay scattered on the windowsill, like reminders of navigating edges of candor you so rarely let anyone enter. Sleep was restless, full of odd dreams that mimicked reality to uselessness and you count down the hours until you must rise again.

It just brings up so much other stuff, you know? she says into the phone. That I hate to be alone. Not on my own, but alone. And what am I supposed to do with my life? The outlook looks bleak, what a cruel month for heartache. I discover a new bruise on my arm. Tomorrow the new year begins.

Tomorrow, everything can change.