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The Journey

In Reasons on April 14, 2009 at 7:59 pm

A famous Irish writer said that he was a drinker with a writing problem. I’m not sure if I’m that seasoned yet, but as I type this I’ve been drinking since noon. That is almost nine hours ago. I also plan on going to the bar later, about midnight. In a few days, none of this will matter. I’ll point the Ford west in search of that mystic desert. I might do some research for my new book, which currently sits in a locked closet. Shut tight in a metallic hard drive.  One that is infected with space worms and spiders. Giant cyber spiders that hunt for cryptic key strokes. I have nothing else to say except that it is all fucked up as usual. Sometimes I have this recurring dream where I get out of a car wreck.  My car is in a ditch somewhere in Texas.  I see infant snakes sitting in cess pools.  I hear jackknifed eighteen wheelers shouting something inaudible.  I imagine that they are saying “Great job!” Yet I know they aren’t saying anything remotely like that.  Then I get my bearings by glancing at a blazing sun.   I hope no one notices this.  Imagine what the bastards would think.  Most think that I am not normal.  This happens every time I enter a conversation.  I simply have nothing to talk to them about.  As I walk home, a man is coming in my direction.  We are heading in distinctly different paths. He is holding a young child.  It is his only son, or that is what I think.  I am clutching a black bag with a six pack of tall boys.  The brand of beer is insignificant.  This is a perfect image of two life choices. On one hand, there is the domesticated family man.  Manicured green lawns.  Safe and predictable.  I am like a lost soldier.  Searching for something.  I walk up Skillman Avenue towards my sanctuary. I find solace in my hundreds of records.  The beer is good, albeit pricey.  Then I am back in the cess swamp.  The baby snakes’ mom has shown up.  Her name is life.

Thom Young is a writer from Texas. He blogs at Me and this Machine. His work has appeared in Thieves Jargon and other sundry places.

  1. and i need more cigarettes

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