‘Let’s go. Enough of this.’
So you pack your bags, board a plane
To a city where friends are plentiful
(And by ‘plentiful’ we mean more than 0).
Good times are promised, and so we start;
The thought of pending time-sheets and pesky clients is discarded
For a brief, but not completely reckless, moment.
* * *
We head out, night on the town;
‘Tonight, we will have so much fun!’
(Why did having fun require such premeditation, so much work?
Were ‘good times’ really good times unless organic, and without any stimulants?)
But you go, you knock back a few;
Do things and say things you ordinarily wouldn’t do.
But it’s not enough. ‘Need more. More!’
More spirits swirl in that glass, and your head swirls too,
In sweet oblivion, mistaken for long-overdue euphoria.
‘So this is what being 25 means, huh?’
Morning comes, and you hope it is otherwise.
* * *
Today, you stood at the window;
Looking over at lines and lights running back and forth across the sea.
No mist, no fog; the sharp outlines of the buildings
Are blurred by a surreal haze.
Mimicking the scene, the mind’s edges are frayed today too.
A pair of gnarly hands seems to inch closer and closer;
No sleep the night before. ‘This does not make sense!’
Have you begun to wander again? Dread sets in.
But you resolve; ‘not again. Not again in this city.’
Reach out to the last reserves of strength and dignity,
“Write” some transient words, exhibit them to a largely-apathetic world,
And hope, that tomorrow will be kinder than today.