i drove home that night with such vitriol that my car was filled with blood.

that, indeed, was how it was. that was the state of the evening.

i drifted from a parking ticket queue with hasty lies and reticent preference. i mumbled my excuses and left the people standing there in the bitter cold. they were happy, they had each other. they were talking and laughing and remembering things that did not include me. i had embroidered my presence into their childhoods all evening, but the thread had finished.

damn acquaintance, you tempt me from afar. you make me do it.

driving through the evening streets and picking my way through the drunk revellers, i anticipated the journey ahead. this was not the journey, this was the journey to the journey. i could see their faces ahead of me in the night air, in my mind. we would talk of our separate evenings and sleep in our separate beds.

they were not there.

i hated them for ten minutes. i hated myself for twenty. i drove home in thirty. i was asleep before i saw the clock.

this is how i have felt since the days of my learning, and i am still learning. apologies will not do in this instance.


One Response to “warning”

  1. In our country, only the strongest escapists survive with wealth, with the most hassle events happening in the streets, going to or from somewhere is an everyday ordeal. But with the mind travelling elsewhere, a jam or a monologue prof seems worlds away, and one comes back when the smoke is clear.

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