Tailgating the Sun

The room smells like peaches.  Full and ripe.  It’s a sweet smell, not overpowering but comforting, and it drifts lazily around the room ducking in and out of shadows, around bedposts and across the sheets. 

I breathe deeply – taking great care in counting through the long draw, pausing then pushing the air out until I am empty inside.  I’m not, really.  But I like to feel that way from time to time just to remember.  You know, to keep myself honest, I suppose.

Honesty.  Hmm.

I hear the dog snoring softly.  He’s lying on a square pillow on the floor between the bed and the door.  He’s perfectly happy, content.  His life is simple.  He wakes up, goes outside, takes a walk, eats, sleeps and repeats.  Every day, without fail.  His emotions are pure.  When he’s upset, he’s upset.  When he’s happy, he wags his tail.  When he wants to play, he wags his tail, finds a toy then drops it at your feet.  When he’s hungry, he eats.  When he’s horny, he’ll fuck anything. 

When I’m upset, he somehow knows – and doesn’t leave my side.  When I’m sick, he won’t stray from the room.  Then there are the times when he lays his muzzle on my arm, looks at me curiously and raises his eyebrows.  Those are the times I’m at my lowest.  I’m usually so moved, the only response I can muster is a pat on the head and the whisper “I know, I know.”

I don’t, really.  But he does.  That seems to be enough.  I could learn a thing or two from the dog.  Like, for example, how to get some sleep with a shift looming in the not so distance future.  I don’t even want to look at my watch.  I’m afraid of what I would see.  I know from the weight of my head pressing down on my shoulders (even lying down) and what feels like a flushed face that it is well past one in the morning.

The dog stirs, grunts.  I hear him reposition his muzzle, tucking it in beside his leg.  Then he goes on sleeping.  There’s a candle burning on top of an unfinished pine dresser in the corner.  I know it’s a votive candle because I lit it…but I just see it as a little, dancing globe of light. Myopic eyes, you see. I marvel at the chaos.  There’s no rhythm, no sense, no method, no direction or constant. 

I count seven rays of light reaching out from the flame.  They begin at an apex in the flame, then fan out and gradually fade into the black inches from my face.  I count them again.  Seven rays.  Well, that’s something.

I look at my watch.  1:16 a.m.  Fuck.

A sigh.  Tilt the head back, try to look thru the darkness at the ceiling.

“Fuck it.”

I roll out of bed, find my glasses and stagger across the room to the closet.  I throw on my favourite hoodie.  It’s like wearing a blanket and I love it.  I shrug it on.  It’s cold and the sweater warms me up.  It reminds me of someone.  That warms me up too.

So, that’s how it starts.  That’s how I end up sitting in the dirty glow of my monitor in the early morning. 

I really shouldn’t be here.  I should be sleeping like a baby, dead to the world, lost in a dream and quite content to stay there, wrapped in a rare sea of pure happiness.

You see, today…or yesterday now…was one of the best days I can remember in the last four months.  And I have a razor sharp memory, especially for details, so I know for a fact, it is the best day I’ve lived in the last 120 days.  Every detail stands out like a brushstroke on a painting.  Not a great painting, sure. It certainly isn’t anything close to a masterpiece.  But it works.  It feels nice when you run your fingers across the ridges and into the valleys and see where each hair made its mark.  And it’s not just mine.  I shared in it and that makes it all the more fascinating. 

I’d put it up on my wall, if I could.  And if people saw it and asked me about it (you know, the standard: hey, nice! Where did you pick that up? Who painted it?  Was it you?  Wow! I’d like something like that.  Yeah, sure you would) I’d smile shyly, shrug, say something like:

“Just messing about, you know.” Lying ass.  “It’s not that great,” yes, it is.

I read today that the cure to unhappiness is happiness.  Yep, it’s that simple.  I’m not saying I’m unhappy.  I’m thrilled, brilliant, golden.  But I will concede this: if God is in the details, so too is bloody Lucifer.

It’s like chipping away at a stone, if you think about it.  Every swing of the pick-axe is a carefully chosen word, a smile, a wink, a laugh, biting your lip, rolling your eyes, a pause.  It’s a stupid, little game…but it’s so much fun.  Eventually, you get somewhere but you’ve got to hit that stone just so.  You see if you muck it up, one fateful strike of the pick-axe and the whole damn thing falls back on you.  That’s the devil’s detail.

You can’t be afraid of it, though.  If you are, nothing good can happen.

It’s like a friend of mine said the other day:

“You know, the two of us should be running away from this shit as fast as we can.”

I was a little drunk – halfway thru a bottle of atrocious German white wine.  I get philosophical when I’m drinking…or sleep deprived.

“Well, do you want to run away?”

“No.”  Swig.  “You?”

“Absolutely not,” I smack my lips.  The wine is far too sweet.  “I want to see what happens.”

“Yeah,” and it suddenly makes sense – to both of us.  “Me too.”

So, I figure it goes like this.  If you’re running away from something, it stands to reason you’re only running to something else, right?  Think about it.  It makes sense. 

Well, I’m running.  And I’m excited because I don’t know where I’ll end up.  And that’s good. 

I’m also done feeling sorry for everyone else.  I pure, straight don’t give a damn.  I have nothing to apologize for.  I spent a lot of time worrying about other people and not enough time looking after myself…in more ways than one.

Well, here and now, it stops. 

I’m tailgating the sun.  It’s warm.  I’m happy.

And I don’t feel guilty about it.