Ghost of my youth

A pit stop on the road of life

Two in the morning, a frigid night for spring ,unable to sleep,driving through the city with the windows down hoping the cool morning drizzle will find a way to wash away the remnants of the dreams that stole my slumber, I stop for a red light at an empty intersection.

The drizzle, higlighted in the pale washed out tangerine aura of a streetlight ebbs and swirls in the wind as if the night itself is as confused as I as to my being there

A puddle at the edge of that urban spotlight struggles to send wispy tendrils of fog swirling up to beckon my attention as a group of youths stop at the corner.

Pausing to light a joint and secure a cheap bottle of wine,I see the scraggly chin hair,the wary eyes and I dont give a damn what you think old man attitude that echoes my own appearance at that age in one.

In a tumbling kaleidoscope the images of being homeless, the inky blackness of the barrels of the many 38's and 22's pointed my way;Mike,dead from drowning;Angel, dead from a drug buy gone bad; Barbara,dead from "accidentally" falling from a bridge;Jimmy in prison for murder; and countless others who names I do not remember take a moment to walk the halls of my memory.

The light now green, I drive with "welcome to the jungle" playing, back to my normal life with my wife and child warmly in the arms of slumber as the future ghosts cross the avenue in my wake.

Reviews

[Tucker]

Despite the few grammatical errors in the piece, it's really well written. Gives one a lot to think about, especially at the ending.
Nice write =)

[Samuel Dickens]

Our other/former selves are easily spotted, huh? You can't tell the youngs ones, though. They're just like we were.