It didn't take me long to realize the unavailability of clean spoons. I suppose it's just that kind of day. Then again, it's February. I should know this already.
Anyhow, clean spoons or not, it's been difficult to get out of bed every morning. The difference from the old days is that it's becoming easier to turn it in at the end of every night. I used to find inspiration in boredom and energy in exhaustion. Maybe all this means is that I'm not 16 anymore. Kind of a scary thought.
But what bugs me now is this feeling I have: it's very nagging and very particular, yet still elusive-- as if I'm addicted to a drug I can't quite put my finger on. And coffee doesn't help. Cigarettes don't help. Beer is time- and brain-consuming and only delays my mysterious withdrawal.
Heroin, maybe? Maybe, but that's a stretch.
So my cure is to leave town-- if not physically, then mentally. If not to Denver, Colorado, then to the bar on the corner, aptly named The Oasis. And this creative bend will not be nurtured, and the loves of my life will remain on hold. And my calls will be dropped or avoided like my eyes off passing strangers and onto the ground.
But my mind will no longer go begrudged, as I'll no longer be looking down my nose, but straight into the eyes of those I once felt better than, and what I could have been will move another mile higher, or stay perched on a pine tree in the mountains whistling while it waits.
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