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I'm looking at a ground covered by fall leaves. I can smell the sick-sweet smell of rotting fruit. Now it's barren earth. Nothing grows here. Trent Reznor is blaring in my ears. I'm already weary. And I know it will only get worse. I watch the sunset faraway on the horizon and a thousand things war inside me. I feel hot and cold, I feel tremulous and useless. Here's something I can do. Eighteen miles and dark out and I'm already too tired.
My shoulders ache. Local mature women to fuck Saint-Palais soles ache. My legs are sore from walking. I'm at Eugene Airport, I just watched a plane land in the dark and I wish I could see a plane on the airfield but there's nothing out there. I'm not going anywhere unlike the billboard beckoning me to go to LA for low-low fare. No, I just stare at my dreams from a fence and see nothing but dark. I turn away and the little glimmer of feeling better is in the pitch black side of the road with no streetlights on Airport Road, I glimpse unto the heavens and for the first time in what seems forever, there's a window in the clouds and I can see the stars.
It's bittersweet, staring at them starved, tired, thirsty, used up, not so much alive as just I walk down Highway 99 for what seems like forever, cars whir by me every other second in the dark and the danger at my back I really don't care about. I walk through the world like a ghost, retracing my steps from another walk I did a year ago, trying to get away from the hurt inside me but only scraping harder against it the farther away I go.
The more I try to get away, the more I see ghosts of what I've lost and feel sad.
I walk past Barger and West 11th and stare at the blackened silhouette of Hynix years after it's closed down, and it's something like midnight. I walk down 18th and now the entire lower half of my body is half-quivering, half-aching, hardly able to hold my weight, just doing it because it's an ancient habit, doing it because I will it, not because there's energy to use. I walk to the ends of the Earth, half in madness, half in sadness, full of a kind of sorrow people who haven't gone through it could never understand.
I try to pick up the pieces of my broken life and find I can't.
I move out of spite and revenge, anger and longing, emptiness and contrition, wishing I could somehow be stronger, that I could do things differently, that my life wasn't an empty road I've been most of my life walking down alone. I drink a Coke and it tastes like God. Sitting down awhile feels like God. My legs are screaming and I don't care. I drink that Coke and that's the world awhile. That's the whole world awhile. And by God. Does it taste so good. I want to rest longer but if I stay sitting, I won't get up.
And I listen, bitterly, the bones of my legs protesting wildly, I gnash my teeth at the pain and walk back into the night, swallowed again by it as the hour and a half home seems like eternity. This is what I can do. All I have to do is wake up to know what I can't do. It hits me everyday, now, every hour, it works itself into my core and burns. The batteries on my player have long since died. It's quiet. I stare without seeing, exhausted as the clerk put it when I got my Coke, and if I wasn't obstinate as Hell, I wouldn't make it.
I think a thousand things, want a thousand things but when I get home, all the dreams go away. Everything goes away. I still want it all. But I'm mute. I sleep, fall into a swoon is more like, and forget everything awhile.
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