Today is not an unusual day.
It is not particular in any real way.
It is Tuesday.
It is February 5th.
It is very cold.
As I sit in this cafe, I am surrounded by familiar smells,
Strangers sit among me.
That is okay.
God knows who they are.
I just now know my waitress, her name is Stella.
But, I only just met her.
Does God know who she is?
Does God know who I am?
Are these strangers like me?
Are they running from something?
Are they content in where they are?
Are they here on purpose?
I am here on purpose.
I think most days.
But, today what is it I think?
Am I here on purpose? Today is one of those days I am not quite sure.
I came out into the cold and the rain today.
I couldn't bear to sit in that apartment another day.
Being afraid. Afraid of so many things.
My past, my present.
My future.
Afraid of what my mother is feeling.
Does my father care?
Will they find me? Will they find me in this little cafe surrounded by strangers?
I am three thousand miles from home.
Is what could be really worth the effort to return to my home?
How does one find an individual?
I did what I was told.
Now, here I am.
I followed my heart,
now. And, then.
Is this circumstance or is this a preference on how to live?
Did I choose this?
Did I trust and listen to a voice I shouldn't have?
I am twenty-five as of a month ago.
You would think by now I would have to accept my choices and know that this is not circumstance.
But, I do not know, I suppose that is the obvious.
Maybe I am just a child.
Maybe I will always be just a child.
That, however, doesn't let me escape.
Nothing will let me escape my past.
My recent past.
My past, past. When I actually was a child.
I can remember what I did then, I can remember what I did now.
As I write this poem,
ADHDHDHDHDHDHDHDHDHD motivates me.
Addiction motivates me.
Just like my mother,
My father.
I drink a beer in the morning.
I puruse for activities to motivate me into a different life.
Comedy shows, dancing, anything to distract from what could be.
The fear of what could happen is exhausting, frustrating, miserable.
Being afraid is a poison.
Maybe my mother is right, is it me to be constantly looking over my shoulder?
For a force who is hunting me?
That hunt does not feel quite real yet.
But, maybe to another one of these strangers in this cafe,
the hunt is real to them.
I cannot ask.
How can one ask a stranger, anything?
Metro nostalgia seeps in. I sit surrounded but I know I am alone.
Remembering again that this is the city of strangers.
And, they like it that way.
They come here for to enjoy it this way.
The days that are so cold.
Like, the heart of this city.
The rain, drizzles.
It will pour, soon.
Strangers stay.
Because, today is not an unusual day.
It always rains in the city of sin.
Truly there is nothing particular about today whatsoever.
It is Tuesday.
It is February 5th.
It is very cold.
I will see more strangers today, and there will be nothing unusual about any of it.
More strangers, who seem ghostly.
Sharing no words.
Why would they?
This is RIP city.
Chances are, the ghosts will always ignore.
Eight days a week.