Log

Sixteen years you've been coming to this watering hole, sifting through the madness of a life and finding the kernels of Truth between its pages; thousands upon thousands of entries dissecting a day, a life, a city that refuses to be contained. You love it as much now as you did then, but it's different, perhaps, a little more frail, a little more hard-earned. Your edges are scuffed, but somehow the city looks past it, accepts it, lets you back with your scars and flaws, has a spot just for you even at your darkest, just like you commit to loving it even when it hurts you, spits you out, forgets its own name. 

The young man at the bar makes eyes at you, tries to insert himself into your conversations with the bartender, tells you how he just got back from spending some time in the Berkshires. You try to read his age by the crinkle in his eye, the gray by his temple, try to gauge his mind by the content of his contributions. The bartender dismisses him with the periods in her sentences, but you are all commas, all ellipses, you had forgotten what a run-on sentence looked like. Winter sits so deep in your synapses you had forgotten what a response looked like. 

It's trying to kill you, you know. That's what winter does, what it is. You cannot blame it its nature, it's only doing what it's meant to do. It brings you to the bottom, so you can feel the sprouts grow within you when the spring sun returns. 

It's just,
when you hit the bottom rock,
what you have to do is use it
to push off to the surface.