Why Am I Awake? (pt the end)

That’s it. We’re done.

The fame got to be too much. People started recognizing me at coffee shops and open mic lounges. Lots of hipster girls began schmoozing with me. Lots of girls have had their mouths on my c**k in such a short amount of time, I might not ever be able to have kids. I’m exhausted.

The attention isn’t all that great. She doesn’t like me getting all this attention. I told her, when we first started, that it would be like this. “I’ll be great,” I said. “I can’t promise you anything because my heart is owed to the world.”

It’s not the same without her. My writing is empty.

It is all empty.

It is dark. Maybe night.

The beginning of…or the end? That's the part I can’t remember.

There’s still lots of lights, still lots of frustration.

I drive up to a local bar, where there’s only old men from a time before their time, and old ladies with nothing left to give but their kidneys.

I call her. Twice.

First, she doesn’t answer. Second, she does.

“How have you been…?”

Nothing.

“I miss you…”

A cough.

She waits and waits. I wait and wait.

Finally, she says, “You’re a s**t.”

“I know.”

A pause.

“Shouldn’t you be writing?”

“I…can’t…”

“You can. It’s all you have.”

“I…”

“Go write--I’ll be here if you’re don’t.”

I never saw her again.

She’s like a ghost. I am haunted by her.

There goes life, going on by you. You can’t catch it.

You go with it. Or you go against it.

If you’re like me, you do neither.

 

Life is a series of patterns disrupted by beauty.

It all starts in the dark. Nothing but the dark.

We are the ones who make the light.

Author's Note

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