In Spite of Ourselves

The sun set in a yellow glob, the color of my suns when I scribbled them as a child, waxy red, orange, a conglomeration of texture and hues. The dark rushed in along with the winter chill. I sat at my desk and wondered what she was doing, a world away.

I awoke that morning with someone else: a thin, tattooed brunette who liked to crinkle her nose, sleep with her head on my chest, play fight and rode horses for a living. She was intelligent, recommended books that I had never read and could discuss those I had. She liked sex and was good at it. Yet there was something missing. That integral part of something. The fire the caught in your stomach, that defied gravity and had the simultaneous power to set afloat and crush.

I fell asleep thinking of Her while holding someone else. The One that slipped away, both from my own neglect and idiocy. Life is full of such 'hers'. We are a species of dreamers and romanticizers. I could blame it on Hollywood but that seems too convenient. The trait is universal, a shared blessing and curse. The ability to imagine. Imagination breeds dissent, breeds greed, breeds yearning, breeds the exceptional. Love is visceral imagination.

And like imagination, it largely goes unaccomplished and pending.

Always expanding.

--Currently listening to John Prine's In Spite of Ourselves

Coming Home

Thin strips of curdled orange hang on the horizon, intersected by the spindly fingers of leafless tree limbs. Shadows scurry after the setting sun, fleeing the thick black clouds to the east and it reminds me of humanity. Brief, fleeting, triumphant in the face of annihilation.
I unlock my truck and get in; the vinyl seats are a tangible reminder of winter’s lingering hold. I turn the key and the engine whirs and the radio comes to life. I drive four point seven miles - three lights, four exits, five more lights, a stop sign - and I’m home. The windows are all dark, the last remnants of orange gone. The heavy wave of night has fallen.