Driving home in the rain one particular stretch looked like the blocks ahead were covered in sopping wet jet black ink spilling itself all over the place. And it was informing me, my spirit to be wild. I kissed every woman in every color in every genuine spell of paper thin romance or the dense real kind. It was a month like that. My heart living in the off shades of black and white.
By the 2nd everyone was driving fast again. Almost too fast this morning for my recognition.
But in that month of December I was lost and flailing lost because I somehow knew I was supposed to be and it was the only way to survive the month. My dad was going to live longer. He cleared his body in a miracle of strength. I was still drained from it. November was a numb blur. He told us we had helped him lift it out. Now I was just exhausted. Now I was just relieved. Now my family was broken and tattered by everything by themselves by cancer by the past by failed opportunities and romances gone wrong and glimmering potential and genes of crazy and a story that does not and would not ever fit into something as cogent as a story or even as abstract as an avant-garde non-linear attempt at pain and paint on a gigantic wall. We were different. We are different. And I was self-inflicted sober for the worst of it (or best) and then I was time-to-relax drunk and now I am simply me, up and running again.
