Weaver

Excerpt from a current idea I am working on

I fall awake. I shake off the numbness that holds my body. The tar I feel in my throat painfully reminds me of the half pack I smoked before taking my nap. The cold wind drifts in from the open window uninvited, acting as a constant reminder that I am not home, not someplace warm. Gloomy gray light sheepishly peaks through my blinds telling me that the day is not over yet.

I feel too uncomfortable to do anything, I always do at this point, like wearing wet clothes and knowing I just have to wait to get them off. I do not know why I do this to myself every time. I know the feeling I get when I smoke, I know how unsatisfactory it is, I know how empty I am left once I finally wake up from my tobacco-infused sleep-influenced schedule, but my behavior stays the same. I like to imagine I am searching for something, a feeling that I once had that I did not appreciate. Yet I fail to realize searching for feelings in smoke and dark evenings only leads to further confusion.

The dense shade of blue light that now comes through my blinds as the sun sets barely allows me to make out the features of my studio apartment. I peer outside, somewhat joyful to see a little light left, and then reach for my cigarettes, putting one behind my ear. Walks of solitude in the cold help me to better understand the emotions, to better approach my inevitable overthinking. I throw on two jackets, a pair of shoes that are certainly not fit for the snow that is now cascading, and double-check for my lighter before leaving.

I approach the empty park. The crunch of frozen leaves as I make my way to the half-corroded railing that overlooks the dark lake is all that I hear. I close my eyes as I sit down on the snow-crusted bench and turn my face towards the sky to try to feel the cold, try to feel the snow as it dances, hoping a flake or two will melt against my skin and remind me that I am warm inside. The last rays of blue begin to evade my sight as the world becomes engulfed in shadows with the only beacon of light coming from the crescent moon. I wonder about the times before when I have experienced this same light, this same cold. I reach behind my ear and hear the click of my lighter echoing in the silent park as I light the cigarette. Is regret the feeling I am missing? Am I choosing to disregard the current so that I can live in the past because I believe they are better times when, in actuality, they were not?

Maybe chasing feelings and hoping they will manifest themselves by doing the same events in the future is futile. Yet I cannot shake the feeling of wanting those memories to be alive again, to be able to once again feel the emotions I can only recall from memories. I find myself like a blind rat, searching in the darkness for something that I cannot even define. However, my only light currently is the one emitting from my cigarette that aids in my searching in the darkness. The snow continues to fall as the day transforms into evening.

I crunch back along the leaves to my apartment. Darkness has overtaken the land, but the streetlights with their warm glow act like welcoming eyes, like friends that are happy to invite me into their homes. I take one last look at the gray clouds, take one last puff to fill the void, and head inside to drift off to someplace warmer.