Keys lost. Sobriety not so much happening as creeping in like a cold breeze through the cracks in the door, like unwanted light rising and reflected off every possible white surface in existenece. Twisted blankets and sheets and I don’t know how we got tangled in that position with pillows all askew, but the outside world is beckoning to me now.
Find the keys — calls reality.
Snow on every roof top and yard. Fluffy cotton tuffs tumbling from high-up white clouds. Two bikes that mysteriously appeared, and your helmets left out in the white powder. If you bring them in now, that will quickly turn to water. You’ll be drenched. You do because what else is there?
Inside, a single key is the only thing left. Pass it across. Now don’t lose it, or you’ll never get that vehicular mode of escape free.
You step down stone steps and out into the muddled wonderland. A growing disaster as the blood pressure kicks up agony inside your dusty head. Walking through this frigid landscape where the footprints of others are the only evidences that you aren’t entirely alone. An outlier’s road to go, for sure.
Forgive me, forgive me, please god forgive me — little notes and apologies, little make-amends to those who’s amends you inadvertantly tattered. At least, in the keyless dawn, you feel you must make recompense.
Instead, a cup of coffee and Tubbs doesn’t open until 3 PM so maybe, god maybe you can lay down.
You drink three, four, five down and shiver, shiver, shake until you can’t take it any longer. Friends make jokes and laughter fills the space of regret because, in this, you are not alone.
The power of commonality is strong within us. The power of loneliness — debilitating.
I was, in the morning hours, rehabilitated.
Food and slow evidences of the night that passed before with you so unawares. Remember now? Your friend sat in that tire there, and the snow prints say it must have been falling even then. Tracks along the way you went were you or someone else going this way. The effect feels the same — tracking through the past. Crows feet and cat tracks and a dog, a rabbit, a deer?
Well, you never practiced, so what do you know? That a crow came this way and flew away.
That everything meanders in the cold like you do.
That you are surrounded by a world of cause and effect, action and recall, imprint and ghost.
Across this tiny town, a ghost lies in my bed. Ghost notes scattered like love letters across the room. Pieces of stories my mind can addle together from others tales and shook-up bits of whatever is left inside of this head.
It’s not much but you will walk me through the hours as they passed. I’ll recall one, two things. I was so goddamn worried about you — and here it was me who was scattering the glitter about. For the first time.
Funny how the subconscious doesn’t exactly account for this.
I wonder who’s still asleep, thinking sobriety can be escaped.
I wonder who’s awake sitting with this bizzare unattached regret.
I wonder who’s perfectly at peace.
I am smiling through white-noised recollections and trying not to worry.
Keys became a metaphor for the whole thing.
And in the end: found. Tucked where they belonged in my back pocket as I ride through the snow that has become rain, drizzling down the back of my neck and soaking into my hands. I’ve only got another few minutes to ride until I crash.
Sleep take me.