Thursday, February 1, 2007

Starting Again

I’m four days sober now and every time I twist my neck or back the room slows to catch up with my sight, as if my spine is a wet towel and I’m wringing out all the soaked up booze. The days before I have surfed and gone to the gym to work out, have eaten fruit, chicken and salads, have drank tea and found bed early. But this morning is like the final exhaustion of the toxins and my body is telling me not to force it but rather rest and let the recovery run it’s own course. Still my mind says fuck to my body and I want to go with what my mind says but I recall that that is how I got here in the first place, by letting my mind win while my body suffers. My selfish little gray mass puts me at more odds than it produces solace. Though in the long-run I always go with what it says, so I cut the bullshit of debating and pack my car: Surfboard, wax, wetsuit, rash guard, booties, water, what’s left of my coffee and my tired six foot, three inch frame and I set off to find the awake of the cold pacific on my bearded face. I go to find the solace never found within my minds own eye.

And tonight while I lie in a fantasy, whether alone or with the company of a very real manifestation of a dream, I will be no where near the flesh upon my bones or wrapped around my being. I will be cold and happy, for I will still be sitting there waiting for Catalina to appear through a break in the clouds or from the sunset. Though I may return to answer a question, be it from my bedmate or my insanity, I will not be torn from the brine of my escape and when either asks why I seem distant: I will smile as my response and remember why I moved here in the first place.


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