Tuesday, April 27, 2010

Ashes of Youth: Chapter 1.3

Blue and pink is everywhere. A day is born.

When I wake up I can smell the remnants of the night and have that smoky feeling. I hop in the shower and I make some coffee before my father wakes up. This is something I did nearly everyday I spent at home. Unless I’d been drinking the night before and he happened to beat me to the beans.

There are few things as lonely as talking on a phone in the morning of a Saturday. They have a certain melancholy that nothing can touch. My personal reasons behind this feeling are because I had this girlfriend a few years back and we used to leave the phone off the hook at night so we could sleep together. On Saturday mornings I would wait for her to wake up because she liked to sleep in. I would lie there for a couple hours with the radio turned low and wait for her to beep me.

Now I’m not much of a fool, I heard the blues man singing that there-is-no-true-love-blues and at first I didn’t believe it. I just liked the down and outness of the music. One day that relationship had to end. And it did, no theoretic somedays here.

Four years later, I’m staring into a cup of black coffee. I don’t even know how old I am. Feeling like a Moses, not a Methuselah so much, in actually I’m seventeen-eighteen young. It hasn’t been all bad, but it has been a hard four years. Not because of her, I wouldn't put that on her shoulders. I’ve lost my mom and grandmother, those two loses felt like twin towers pluming ashen over the timer of a downtown graveyard. I worked against the persistent forward motion of time, to my certain dismay everything still grew visible in sharp relief.

I don’t want to communicate that I feel particularly unique in my experiences thus far. Everyone has their problems and everyone deals with them somehow. Yet, if I had to attach a label to myself then I would use the word unique, because labels are easy and everyone is supposedly unique. Maybe it’s a copout and a throwback to every motivational speaker that ever filled you with hope or cynicism.

However you look at it, just don’t bother me.

I can hear the shower running from my father’s bathroom and that slowly pulls me from the introspective abyss. By the time he comes into the kitchen I am a full-fledged extrovert.

“Mornin’” I said.

“Mornin’, thanks for making coffee” he said.


“You take your medicine?”

“Not yet.” I always hated that our days started and ended with him asking if I took my medicine.

We sat there in the obligatory morning silence sipping our coffee.

“Is that boy awake yet?” he asked about my brother.

“Were you expecting him to be?” I smiled. He smiled too.

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