The clouds are still visible tonight, another reminder that it’s all real. Even though it’s easy to believe it does, the sky doesn’t disappear at night. Pale glowing spots sit on the horizon line where a tiny city blinks in the night, but there aren’t many lights on this road. I’m drunk off of two beers again so of course I’m thinking deeply on the ride home while sitting shotgun. I think the motion of a moving car forces my brain to move.
A year ago, I would be inspired to run home to write some crazy awesome revelation realized in a dizzy haze of beer and smoke, but tonight I’m drained dry. It hurts my heart that I’ve lost that part of myself, at once mystified and electrified by anything from the way my pantyhose looks as I swing my legs on a barstool, to the way condensation drips onto a napkin off of a cold glass.
Naively, I tell myself that I used to be a writer, but clearly that was never the case. Instead it’s just a barely functioning anchor to a romanticized image of my former life. A life where I wasted hours upon hours sitting and thinking out of coffee shop windows, outside of my lecture halls and inside my bedroom walls producing nothing of worth except souvenirs of an unrealized dream. Somehow it never felt like wasted time before and that dream was more of a reality when the world was just beginning, but now each minute is precious and any second I spend practicing unrestrained contemplation feels selfish. The guilt overwhelms me presently as I write this crap sentence.