Nobody told 2020 that it only had a year to live. 

It won't be long now . . . at 12:00 am, 2020 dies.

Philbrook

Sometimes, in brief flashes of clarity, we see the way forward. 

How we capitalize on these moments of insight dictate the outcome of our lives.

What an insightful realization.

The conundrum of college:

In order to get rich you have to go to college, but in order to afford college you have to be rich.

Solution: I will become rich. Knowledge will not be denied me.

Delta Echo Sierra Tango Alpha November India Echo (A.K.A. What Separates Me From You)

I had a dream about you tonight. It was so . . . unsettling . . . that it woke me right up. 

I feel as though I have to write it down, in order to get it out of me.

You and I were standing at the end of a long, empty hallway. There were people standing at the opposite end of this hallway but not anywhere near us. At the end of the hallway were two doors with windows, which allowed for us to look outside. 

I cannot tell you for certain where we were but it may have been San Pedro, the small, seaside fishing town where I was raised.

I moved out of San Pedro when I was 23 years old but something about the depressive, dour imagery of the town still haunts me: I can remember late nights on our balcony watching the fishing canneries rust, the rattling wheels of the local trolley punctuating the cool evening air as it delivered its weary load to and from the port and its surrounding factories. The hard, weathered faces of the fishermen on the 22nd Street Landing, the commercial fishing trawlers leaving port in the pre-dawn light, the omnipresent and comforting scent of salt in the air as it wafted through my bedroom window on the backs of crashing Pacific Ocean waves . . . 

Yes, it all still visits me from time to time.

You started the conversation. 

"I saw you walking down Indio Avenue yesterday. Were you going to Chimp's?"

"Uh, what's that?"

"It's that new burger joint that all the cool kids are into."

I looked away as I answered. There was a hole in the wall to my right-hand side and just above my head. I had to stand on my tippy-toes to peer inside.

"Oh, no. I didn't even know that was there." 

When I lowered myself back down and turned back to look at you you were standing much closer, looking me in the eyes and smiling. Like I said, it was unsettling, but not at all unwelcome.

"They have Chimp Chimp. He's a real chimpanzee and the restaurant's mascot."

You stepped closer and embraced me with your right arm at my waist, resting your head in the crook between my chest and my right shoulder. You turned me around and we started walking up the hallway.

In the last several days I have become painfully aware of my inability to foster conversation with women. It feels as though I am in competition and cannot compete. From afar I watch men and their interaction with women and the entire transaction feels reciprocal, compatible, affable. When I try and establish the same rapport, it is though a cold, invisible walls manifests itself between myself and the woman in question. I can see it - it is transparent and blue, as though it were made of bricks of glass. It is almost imperceptible, but it is there. My conversation feels contrived and cheap and forced and no connection is established. Women seem almost relieved when I run out of things to say and the feeling is mutual.

I have been reading Now Watch Him Die by Henry Rollins. It did not make much of an impact at first and is still a far cry from a great read, but the deeper I get the more enlightenment I find:

"I hate my loneliness and sorrow. It cuts into me. It defines me. People are the root of loneliness. All I can feel is the need for my body and mind to get away from this for a little while."

What they do not understand is that I cannot talk to save my life. I cannot even talk to people I know. 

Wes always described it best in "Shoplifting in a Ghost Town": "I love the first few days but it's no fun playing a game you always lose." 

This is what separates me from you.

"I was in the dark looking at the stars, thinking about how good it felt to let go of the idea that I will ever be close to someone ever again. They don't know and you can't get mad at them for not knowing, but you somehow wish that they could read your mind."

So . . . yeah. This dream ruined me a bit. You ruined me a bit, unintentionally. But I loved it, Destanie. In that moment it felt . . . nice. 

Warm. Comfortable. Inviting. Owned. Like I imagine Home feels like.

Like I could – and wanted to – fool myself into believing it were real.

Thank you and forgive me, Destanie. I feel better for writing this. I feel lighter, like the weight that I awoke with has left my shoulders and I can breathe again, at least for a little while.

I have tempered myself into something hard and mean.

I have learned

to find solace

in the realization

of my failures,

in the realization

of my loneliness,

and in the certitude that

both of these feelings 

are everlasting.

Now Watch Him Die

"Bury me in a graveyard overlooking the sea . . . " 

These are the last words you ever spoke to me.