I forced open my eyes and gazed out the 6:00am window. The dense fog outside drew in through my nostrils, into my lung tissue, my blood cells, my bone marrow. I felt lifeless and numb within my treasured goose-down sleeping bag; my thoughts utterly separate from my exhausted body. My spirit hovers above, looking at this depleted bag of bones with bloodshot bagged eyes an ever thinning hairline.
Cursing under my breath, I sat up and rubbed my swollen eyes. My bag slipped from my shoulders and the December breeze took its place, affectionately stroking my back and neck with its sharp icy nails. I shivered, swearing. I was awake.
I stood, my comfort and warmth dropped to the floor, exposing my malnourished, pale coffin. I was proud of my body, my own personal ******* to the average soft bellied spineless American. I inspected the ***** mirror on the wall, confused. Who was the shaggy, slit-eyed disgrace looking back at me? I made a few faces, trying to recognize myself again. I looked old; I got sentimental and wondered where the years went. Then I realized I’d be thinking that for the rest of my life. I picked some brown dead skin off my face, brushed my malformed teeth and tried to spit out the window. White minty bubble **** sprayed everywhere.
In a bit, I was in the kitchen pouring some foul-smelling Maxwell into my coffee cup. Coffee is wintertime *******; my only weapon to protect myself from sideways rain and frozen knuckles. It also killed the morning-hater in me, that dark eyed scowling bitter kid that comes out once in a while.
I slid outside, the bitter wind wrapped around my face and filtered through my blood. My irises twitched with the passing cars, crawling pedestrians, vibrating leaves, and the moving earth around me. I keep my head down, weaving and turning my shoulders, maneuvering to my stop. As I walked, I studied the weathered cracks on the pavement, and related with them. They were weathered; soon, they would have to be replaced. I feel that way sometimes.
Seattle’s masculinity was obscured by deathly gray that December morning. The buildings looked like the ancient tombstones of some ancient breed of megatherium. The triumphant northwestern giant, bustling with so many brisk Asians, a few defeated Juggalos, some quite possibly successful businessmen (where do they go home to?) and loads of beautiful women, who walk with quick steps, uncomfortable glances, and brisk movements. Seattle in the morning was something I never loved. Everybody seems to get self-righteous, and forget their humanity at home.
I waited for my bus on a bench, invisibly observing everyone around me. I sometimes felt as If they all felt me inspecting them, knowing something I didn’t, some secret, information that I had just missed. I just liked to look at their solemn eyes. Look into their glazed eyes. I never have to speak to anyone that way. I quickly stab into their eyes and I have their tender souls in my hands.
I didn’t have to wait long until my bus crawled out of the fog and hissed to a stop, the hiss bringing me back to reality. The beast opened its doors with an earsplitting pop. As I loaded my bike, eyes down, I overheard a father making his goodbyes to his college son. I smiled, and wished I could say goodbye to my dad again.
And then the bus jolted forward, and my life jolted forward, and that morning was behind me.
