I went outside for a late night smoke by myself tonight- to contemplate my life and such. The moon wasn't full but I can't remember the last time I saw so clearly at night. The fog rolled in from the hills to the south as it crept towards me. I watched it crawl over the houses like a safety blanket. All the houses with their lights off, all snug and comfortable. I wondered what the fog was hiding.
But I always think like that.
Mt. Tamalpais stood tall and brooding over the enveloping fog. Even from my hill I could smell the ocean. The moon lay directly above me making every shadow a haunting silhouette shrouded in mystery that I didn't care to solve. I stood there still as the wind picked up and the leaves were dancing in the trees mocking my indifference. A foghorn blared near the Golden Gate and a mental map of the bay filled my mind like sonar. Al Capone must've hated that horn while waiting in his cell on Alcatraz. Smelling the chocolate impregnate the cold air wafting from Ghiradelli Square towards the island. Wondering how many great whites lurk in a 5 mile radius. How cold and strong is that current as it pulls you out into the largest ocean in the world? Is my posse waiting on shore cupping their ears in hopes to respond to my faint cries battling each ripple a quarter mile across the water?
I probably think the way he did. Like a prisoner who was only trying to revolutionize the modern version of fun.
Who only had the excuses of having 'yes' men. Alibi's. Resources. Connections. Intuition. A knack for not getting caught, usually.
But I'm not Al Capone.
I'm a 22 year old girl with a bay full of dreams.
The cigarette was no longer keeping my head or my shivering carcass company. I put out the butt in my yellow empty flower pot. The ashy grave of my failed green thumb's spring attempt.
I went back inside to lay between my white sheets. I waited until my body was finally warm again to start feeling sorry for myself. My heart lay inside of my body encased in sorry flesh atop the perfect white sheets. It hung in my chest like an anchor on a wire hanger. I felt it bending and snapping and felt my pulse at my feet. I turned and faced the wall as I wondered if its possible for someone to drop your soul. Or should I remove it myself and huck it across the bay to reside on that island prison so as not to be dropped and bruised again. To live in exile for eternity as it rots in infamy. Ok, thats dramatic.
The tension was palpable in my room and I was fucking alone.
Tonight the fog had nothing but a cloak for me to shield myself from the milky way and moisture and my demons.
The glowing Mary of Guadalupe sitting atop my dresser prayed at me. Her humble beauty stood there, vacant. I fell asleep clutching my pillow wishing it was my love's warm body. But all I could feel was the cold distance of 400 miles between us. I went to sleep and dreamt I could fly.