dodeontheroad

The Battle of Ocho de Mayo

I don’t know whether I’m cold or warm. My cigarette is smouldering and my coffee has long been cold and stale. 129 days later, or 4 months and 8 days later, I’m finding myself listening to the same song on repeat as I did then and thinking the same thoughts. Funny how things tend to repeat themselves that way.

About 5 months ago, I saw my cigarette smoke escape my body and I thought, there goes my mortality spiralling away into the clouds. I was indoors then and I was warm. I thought, when my thoughts turn to melancholy, I know a loss not yet come, but no less devastating in its stride. Prophetic, but so very naïve.

There’s a lot more to lose than friends and youth. Along those few months I’ve lost my sanity, my self-belief, and hope. Things I thought were certain are no longer; I have no one and nothing much. There’s a strange dichotomy in my head, but it seems one has won out over the other. The latter seems to be coming up short for untapped reservoirs of willpower.

It’s getting colder, the sun is setting. For every breath I exhale, the wind snatches it straight from my lips. There’s no pretty poetry there, no spiralling, no tendrils, no soft clouds for my breath to join with as it ascends to the heavens.