I’m having a shallow glass of rum and modifying the layout for my bereavement group I’m scheduled to be running at the conclusion of spring break.  I thumb through a variety of activities for the kids until I’m bored with myself and The American Dollar just becomes background noise. 

My Saturday is less of a wash than I expected it to be, but still disappointing nonetheless.  And though my birthday is coming up within the week, I’m finding very little reason to be excited.  I downplay it with everyone, mainly because I’m too afraid to have any expectations for what it could mean.  It’s safer to deny others the opportunity to let me down. 

The slight light from the candle in my bedroom warms the sandalwood oil that thickens the chilled air.  The window never closes.  The smell of rum on the lip of the bottle reminds me of your lips.  And the taste reminds me of your taste.  And of every ignorant thing I’ve ever accomplished in my twenties.  Or what I should’ve done or what I shouldn’t have done or what I wish I could still do and wonder if I have it in me to even try. 

It is always a late night and it’s always a handful of recollections that make me feel older than I truly am.  My mistakes have aged me, almost as much as the mistakes of others. 

Semicolon.

Most of my waking hours are spent dreaming.  Most of my dreaming is sleepless.  And when I wake up tomorrow, it will be another Sunday.  The thought was once melancholic, but now it’s just demoralizing.

But I’ll step out of bed like the waking dead, far earlier than I’d like.  And I’ll make my eggs on an iron skillet I cherish more than most of the things that I own.  And the coffee I make will be too bitter for anyone else to drink.  But I’ve grown used to the bitterness because we’ve come to understand one another.

If I’m bitter, it’s because I have a million reasons to feel like I should be and no desire to explain myself to anyone who doesn’t understand.  And if I’ve grown even further into my reclusion, it’s because it makes me happy.  I’ve never wanted the life anyone expected for me and what others think would make me happy is what would make them happy.  And if I cared, I would explain myself better.  I spent the majority of my life doing what I could to make others happy.  So much, in fact, that I resented them for it.  And now that I’m acting on my own behalf, it’s hard for everyone to understand.  But there is peace in my apathy over their concerns for me.