Dear San Diego,
Like a snake stretched out in the sun, I drove the I5 tip to tail.
Slept in my car. Smoked incessantly. Nothing but coffee.
Listened to New Grass on repeat as if it were the sole movement of the canonical hours.
Crossed at Lynden in the middle of the night. All I had was Parker's number but no idea where she was.
Called her. The entire conversation a whole other story, but got her address.
Car broke down. Fan belt. Walked into a nearby town and got a new one. Slept against a tree that night. Potato chips, cheap bourbon, an old blanket. Hobo no train.
Found her place late. Parked in The Mountain's parking lot. Went over at about seven in the morning and rang her buzzer.
Hadn't seen her in years, but she hugged me anyway.
I had my car towed the next day. Didn't try to sell it or nothing, just told the guy he could do whatever he wanted with it.
In short black and white snippets, that's how it happened. I try and remember it sometimes, the details, how I felt, but it's a blur.
When your whole life explodes beneath you, when the person who's set the charges doesn't have a clear reason why, when indifference is king, when there are no answers, you get angry. But eventually you come to the realization there's nothing in it. You can't figure it out and never will.
The reasons why people do what they do more often than not don't make sense. The funny thing is, as if an interrogator's light shoved in your face, you're confronted with everything you were forced to be that was never you. That for years, behind the false smiles of "all's well", you'd been ground down.
And so one day you find yourself in the mountains in the middle of nowhere with one of your oldest friends that's a ghost of the person they used to be. You stand looking out over a field of tall grass, your body deflates, your face loosens, and you're overcome by an immense wave of genuine exhaustion.
No matter the confused reasons for it all, you get yourself back. And at least that's something.