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A writer.

So what of these nights when there is nothing to write?

Everything laid before me, the wine not helping my creativity, unable to piece my experiences together despite my sincerest efforts.

London down the road; I am turning the corner and can see its two-week face approaching, counting down the days until I am on a jet plane, flying over the ocean. Looking down at the Atlantic waters might remind me of something I cannot forget, could help my writing become the solid machine I want it to be, or could glisten the way girls do when the sun hits their face and names them beautiful.

And what of my life?

What of the steps I have walked, and the mistakes, and the good times?

And what of my childhood friends?

Andy having a baby, very thankful he put up with me all these years and is still around to listen to my anger on angry nights, to listen to my rambling on drunken nights or to listen to me when I am lying on the bathroom floor lost in all the tangles of a future I am constantly searching for.

Tyler, far away now, but seemingly close, like I can still hear his hilarious laugh, and can picture us listening to Home Grown and MXPX and looking at the Playboy his dad used to keep on top of the refrigerator.

So much ahead of us then. The horizon a place where the sun always rises. Streetlights lighting our baseball field, not lighting our life or directing us where we need to go. Me standing on my porch, now, looking at the lamps lighting the road below, and I would follow them if I could, just follow those lamps until they end and my contentment turns into possibility and all the things I wanted in life huddle under a tin roof, ripe for the picking, coated with the dreamy milk that drips from the stars.

And it hits me again; my ultimate leaving, this porch I stand on will only support me for a few more days, and the tennis courts across the street and the park and the woman that walks her dog religiously each night will become a memory; and the cigarettes Luke smokes piled in the ashtray will be gone; and the stain in my carpets will be forgotten; and the pictures I have hung in this apartment will go into a storage bin, where I will pack them into boxes and lock the door until I can find them again on a day when I am a happier, more determined man who has seen a bit of the world and will know more certainly what he wants in life.

I suppose I should box myself away as well, because I am going to change in the coming months, and will look back on these days and think highly of them at times, and poorly of them at times, but all in all will be grateful that I experienced them and wrote them down in a humble journal I can always call my own and will be able to read again when the nights are long or when the rain falls or when the sun highlights the smile I will have hopefully found again…

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