12:30 in the morning.
I settle in with my notebook,
in my pajamas.
My very dapper pinstriped PJ's no less.
Got to look good for...
Floyd I guess.
I don't know.
Being alone has it's advantages.
And it's drawbacks.
Pro: I can watch Sportscenter in bed in peace.
Con: But nobody hears my pithy remarks.
Pro: No one to tell me not to eat that sausage grinder at...
Con: My large bed is always empty.
Con: No one to kiss goodnight.
Con: No one to wake up to in the morning.
Con: I love to cook. No one to cook for .
Pro: I make my own schedule. Go out when I want. Stay in when I feel like it.
Pro: Never forced into hanging out with people I don't like.
Pro: Extra angst gives me added impetus to write more.
Con: No one to bounce story ideas off of.
Pro: No one to criticize me.
Con: But there's no one to criticize me.
Pro: No birthday or anniversary to remember.
Con: Regular sex- out of the question.
12:38 in the morning.
Making a cup of tea.
The quiet is almost asphyxiating.
Is this irony?
When my house is bustling with kids and family,
And all I want is for them to leave.
But, when it's empty,
But often become overwrought with crushing loneliness.
Is it irony?
Or just a self-fulfilling prophecy?
5:30 in the morning.
I just awoke from a dream.
I was feverishly searching for something.
A gun, as it turns out.
I searched all over.
My neighbor's house.
My aunt's house (she lives 2 hours away).
Finally, there I am: in Boston.
And there, on the empty street, I find my gun.
It's just laying on the sidewalk.
Like it was put there just for me.
I pick it up.
Put it to my temple;
And then... I hear a voice.
A little girl's voice, which I can't place.
I wander into the street to hear this disembodied voice clearer.
"I love you. I love you."
And suddenly, everything becomes clear.
I drop the gun and fall to my knees.
And as I close my eyes,
And begin to cry out in pain and anguish and rage,
An overwhelming feeling of calmness,
Rushes over me like a breeze on a crisp Autumn evening.
And at that very moment,
I open my eyes.
Just in time to see the city bus,
Which is now 5 feet away blaring it's horn.
As the bus' headlight cracks against my skull,
Needless to say,
This is the point that I woke up.
What does it mean?
Is it a sign?
And if it is...
What the hell does it signify?
That no matter what I do, I'm going to die, abruptly?
Is it about the tumultuousness of life,
manifested in a bus bearing down on me?
Why did I choose not to shoot myself?
I obviously wanted to.
But chose not to.
It all leads to one undeniable conclusion:
Never eat a sausage grinder right before bed.