I gravitate between Winchester and Baltimore. Two hours lost in each direction. Two hours stripped away, no matter which way I face. How long have I stared at the highway?
In Baltimore I scoop coffee beans into buckets. Into bags. Where ever they need to go. I do this all day. When I leave I carry clouds of coffee fumes with me.
In Winchester I wander about the apartment. I kick up dust and let the cat sit on my stomach and knead my chest when I inevitably crash to the floor. Occasionally I'll stare at myself in the mirror for an undocumented amount of time. Pull at hairs or poke at pores or trace all the little red lines of my eye.
In the car I smoke cigarettes and weed. Drink coffee and beer. Anything to modify the experience of sitting in the driver's seat and tugging at the steering wheel while maneuvering through fleets of angry commuters. The radio goes on and off every fifteen minutes or so. It fluctuates with my aggravation.
And I hope for an end. I twist my fingers together and close my eyes in desperation, aware that I'm doing nothing beyond crossing my fingers and closing my eyes. But I pretend it means something more. I pretend it has substance and power. That it'll make a difference. That, for some reason, it will alleviate some of the tension and pressure of moving and transitioning and settling and remaining so undoubtedly apprehensive.
But when I open my eyes I see nothing but grey skies. Condensation dripping from the power lines. The flicker of a store front sign. Brake lights.
Do I feel lighter?
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