A year ago, on late evenings like this, I would have been dragging myself off to work in faraway Nova, stopping by fast food drive thrus for terrible coffee. The gloom in my heart was as dark as the streets, piercing like a thorn. I spend the rest of the night pretending, performing my unforgiving job. A year ago, I tried to quit my job.
Tonight, and many nights like this, when the D. and I. are tucked in, I temporarily regain a sense of aloneness. I take to literature, writing, music, whisky, beer, coffee, squandering time on the internet, watching some TV series.
A year ago, all I wanted was to do what I'm doing tonight. Stay home, read a book or a back issue of the New Yorker (listing down more books to read and movies to watch) while drinking iced coffee, bluetooth speakers pouring beautiful sonic showers from Death Cab for Cutie, Ra Ra Riot, Tokyo Police Club, Arctic Monkeys with pangs of nostalgia from Red Hot Chili Peppers, Pearl Jam and Rage Against the Machine. I feel like a stitched wound of mine has healed, or that I've pulled that thorn out of my heart.
Oh, and I managed to keep my job. Now I'm looking for new reasons to quit. The more I fuel that desire, the more I light my passion and start either believing or fooling myself that there is always something even more grand in the night.
