Sweet oblivion

Showtime.

His palms are ready for endless gestures and the audience applauding into oblivion until hands get numb. 

Every dramatic pause would encourage him to stare into the distance. We all question ourselves about the intensity of his thoughts. Where he may or may not be stranded metaphysically. He sees the ropes getting closer and tighter. The curtains are coming closer. 

Scene. 

He is back home. His loft could serve as an amusement park for claustrophiles. Hundred-twenty five dollar bills are melting down from all the scotch he poured into his swear jar. Apparently Paris is not the answer. Maybe he could sell his piano or the ring mother left for her. And then leave for good. He wanted to bury that  dusty, shimmering piece of denial months ago. Certainty embraces him. He goes to the park. His personal Eden. He is laying on the grass. He is burning up the meditation weekend gift card she gave him before the detour. Sunrise. Another day. Inner peace is overrated anyway.