923

The air is thick tonight. Thick and humid in a way that takes me back to my younger days, scribbling shitty art in a shitty apartment without air conditioning in a shitty subdivided house with only a sweat-stained futon for furnishing. The droning hum of the box fan in the window was a constant accompaniment to whatever antagonistic music I happened to have in the CD player.

Its nights where the air is like this that I think about being up into the unholy hours of the night. Sometimes I’d have the occasional companion that I would bring back from whatever club or all-night coffee shop I happened to find myself in that evening, always leaving a carnal fog in their wake. The essence that hung in the air would always leave me with a feeling of craving more.

A few more minutes. Maybe an hour. A day. Why did I even need to bother ever wearing pants again?

Most nights, however, I was left to my own devices; left to scrawl out marginal visions in colored pencil onto whatever I could find to mark on. Drawing and coloring some trite and self-indulgent vision into the wee hours of the morning, completely neglecting any semblance of self-care.

How long had it been since I’d done laundry?

How did my friends even tolerate having me around?

I know I had friends, because even in my deepest funk they still made a point to come see me. I didn’t fully appreciate them at the time…honestly I’m not sure I still fully appreciate them.

When the air is like this I can almost feel the bridge in time where I have a chance to go back and do it right. The breeze pours over me and then I blink and I’m right back here, stuck in the present but untouched by time.