
The Gambler
The compulsion is to just get on the road and drive. Thoughts of forward momentum creep into every moment that I am unable to keep myself properly distracted in rational, adultingly productive containment. They constantly consume my sleepless overnights, that predictable collection of empty hours spent tossing and turning, like a hastily rented car pin-balling south through the mountains. This stagnation is choking my hesitant possibilities. The cookie cutter repetition of each day spent alone melts into the next, just like the limp and deflated traces of the last of the winter snow whimpering just outside the windows of this little blue house. They combine predictably into this tick-tock symphony of stale blandness that bores me to the point of ridiculous self-harm and the compulsive looping …
Read More