It comforts me also. I never mind the lack of conversation; I just feel grateful to be included. I occurs to me sometimes that they may feel I interpret that void of speech as neglect but it's not that way. I don't know why it is but that duration of time when they have nothing to say, understand, or argue may be the only time when my mind can escape from the constant barrage of anxious thinking which terrorizes me each normal day.
I'll share a secret. I do like sports television. Not for the love of the game or to see The Greats accomplish what training and genetics have hardwired into their destinies. I like sports television because I like to gaze at the visages of the friends beside me, and see an odd look of glassy focus in their eyes. It's perhaps a little pathological but I feel quite unusually happy and content to be amongst such foreign creatures who can vacate bothersome thoughts with supreme authority.
I noted as we said goodbye that these are family - for this town felt safer today than yesterday only because they are here. We parted ways the way we would in LA, an offhand wave and "Laters," and it felt right, though we may not see each other for another months or years. But then driving home, I missed the U-turn and kept at a road leading away from where I wanted to go and for a second I entertained the thought of just following and allowing myself to be taken somewhere to be lost. Then furthermore, I began to imagine that in every car I passed and which passed me were my friends, and their passing didn't sting me because there they would be again and again. I still can't tell why I imagined so but I did.
I felt slightly that I was hallucinating because when I neared the residential area around Safeway on Miller and Di Napoli Street where I used to wait for my mother to pick me up after middle school, all things seemed not so dark (I had always felt we needed brighter street lights but today I thought they were sufficient).... and in being less frightening and mysterious, it felt much more truly empty of people.
That was when I thought to myself perhaps there may be utility in falling asleep in someone's arms. Some employability in being known. Some use in picking a person to listen to The Weepies with, for a lifetime. The house, I knew, would be unlit, silent, chilly - hardwood and floor-to-ceiling windows all along one side - and I was convinced.
I know I love very simple things and none that can exactly be had. Glassy focused eyes, the knowledge that someone's dozing in the corner, calling the same person five times in a day. Perceiving someone to be reliable, allowing him to crunch the numbers, and maybe place a judgement on the waitress who forgot about us for half an hour. These are things that awaken my feelings, which tells me in truth I belong with friends.
When the last of the frost melts off maybe I'll be flying back.
Red eyes and fire and signs
I'm taken by a nursery rhyme
I want to make a ray of sunshine and never leave home
I want to be forgiven for causing pain and I want to be free from the pain I live with.
She says: Gapjagi seulpo. Mr Sanders wants to kill himself. I can't sleep. Gapjagi seulpo.
She cries, the gasping sobs of someone whose body developed much faster than her adaptability. Lord, a prayer for the brokenhearted.
