Seven Days

The countdown continues apace. The desire to stay in my twenties or prolong the start of my thirties, or really have more time on this earth - this desire, this wish, falls on deaf ears. The calendar keeps on switching days in a forward fashion every twenty-four hours. I thought about my life for quite a while yesterday. I spent most of my day on a bus, again going down to DC to see this man who likes being choked and smothered.

The way down there, I slept on and off, occasionally waking from my Benadryl-induced nap to look at the passing scenery, the side of I-95 one of the most comforting sights in the world to me, seeing it pass by in a brief blur, this trip up and down 95 done so many times throughout my life, my family driving north from the DC suburbs to see relatives, and all of these sights seeming full of import at the time.

After smothering this guy, him red-faced, struggling for breath, and jerking him off at the same time until he came, I hopped in a cab and got straight back on the next bus leaving our nation's capital. The Benadryl had worn off by this point and by the time we reached Baltimore, the day was ending, the sun slowly setting over the landscape. From my bus seat on the upper deck of a Megabus, I had large panorama windows from which to marvel at this beautiful sky, so pink.

Right before we entered the tunnel that goes underneath the Baltimore Harbor, I was presented with a sketch of urban decay and industrial landscapes that struck me as insanely beautiful, a sight I used to see far more often prior to moving to New York. Living in New York City, amazing a place as it is, has really narrowed my world to a few square miles that I rarely venture outside of. This drive awoke in me memories of my past, of driving these roads to this concert or that relative, or taking the Chinatown bus home for Christmas. There was a baseball field, empty, and next to it a hulking concrete factory, and behind that, water.

Each approach of an overhead highway ramp brought an anticipation, driving underneath it an exhale, having just been briefly amazed at the engineering feats of our national highway system. Regal concrete structures, ascending and descending, overlapping each other, a poetry in it, lines written in a nonverbal language showing the continual and varied movement of the people living here.

Skinny trees lined the road. Signs announced "Right Lane Must Turn Right."

Today, back in this town, there was a loud parade that passed near my house, a Puerto Rican parade. After it ended, I walked down Graham street, Puerto Rican flags for sale in front of all the bodegas, people walking in one direction, away from an ending.