I turned down some “really good acid” today. I never thought I’d find myself in that situation. I never thought I’d find myself in a lot of places.
I’m sitting in a cabin at the end of the road in Big Sur. The road literally stops. There’s nowhere left to go. And I want to say it feels like a metaphor, but I probably think everything is a metaphor.
One year ago, I was ecstatically happy. Life was good, and you were on your way. “And” was easier then.
Two months ago, I felt so much more ready. My son and his sibling. It was a world of possibility.
And I sit in this cabin today, bathed in light, and I once again feel broken. Will I ever not feel broken?
This time was supposed to be for you. This time was supposed to be the countdown; the final touches, the beauty of your memory. And the more I “and” into the world, the more fear in disconnection.
I am a mother without a living son. I am an Airman, and I’m not doing very well. I am a daughter who doesn’t talk to her parents. I am words beyond lonely. This all are my “and”.
I was sitting on the office porch, trying to download something to read. (I always pick these places with the most terrible internet). Two men heading to a music festival had blown out their spare tire. I wonder if happiness will ever be as easy as the donut of a stranger and an offer of acid or weed?
And I guess it maybe says something that I turned that offer down. Because sometimes, even today, oblivion sounds amazing. And somehow I keeping anding.
I miss you.