It's 4 am, and I just woke up. I'm still a bit groggy. I think I'm in Phoenix. At least, the driver just announced that we're all to depart and unload our luggage. I hope this is Phoenix.
I grabbed my bags and ambled into the station with the rest of the living dead. I'm actually surprised that I was able to sleep. The last thing I remember was stopping at some small town in New Mexico, the name of which has long escaped. I'm just grateful that I didn't wake up on a lawn this time. That's the funny thing about sleeping on long trips--you want to doze off to help the time pass more quickly, but the next time your eyes open, you're a stranger in a strange land.
God, I have to stay here for another hour. I'm in no condition to write much at the moment, but I like filling in the blanks whenever I get the chance--makes a journal feel more like a journal. I don't really think I can read, either. Besides, now that I've finished Calvino, all I really want to do is finish Kafka on the Shore--the one book I no longer have. Damn it. Why didn't I look for a bookstore back in Roswell? I would've had plenty of time.
Maybe I'll have some coffee, as if that would even help. I have a lot of sleep to catch up on, and I have a feeling that as soon as I make myself comfortable, I'll pass out again. Maybe that's for the best. California still feels so far away.
Well, I was right. I grabbed a cup of coffee at the bus station in Phoenix and spent the remainder of the hour in a state of complete disarray. I changed back into my hoodie and found an empty bench outside, where the crisp early morning air was enough to keep me awake. So there I sat, my back against the cold brick wall and a hood covering my head in the still darkness. I was invisible again. I was awake, and I was in control But as soon as I took my seat on the bus in Phoenix, I fell asleep.
It was a nice sleep, a dreamless sleep. I didn't know what to expect, to be perfectly honest. Wait, that's not right. I knew exactly what to expect. I expected a dream. There's only one that's on my mind now. Our bus is traveling down a dark highway, machines as big as mountains blocking the sun, and then the largest opens. The light spills forth.
I'll see it again in one form or another. I know I will. Other people have seen it. So unless I'm dreaming the paintings of some urban vinyl artist I've never met or even heard of before, I know I'm not completely crazy. There's more to the dream than random imagery that was hatched inside my unconscious mind. It has to be the light--the light I saw as a kid, the light from the machine. It's blinding, encompassing. It's like a beacon.
Now there's a theory I haven't considered before. Maybe when I saw that light--the first light--it was meant just for me. I wasn't some innocent bystander stricken with an increasing paranoia. I was the target. Sure, that's not as realistic as some astronomical phenomenon or as unselfish as a random alien visitation, but what if it was a message directed only at me? By whom, I don't know. Someone from far away, in space or time or both. Maybe it's a message from my future self--some grand, self-invoked event that would lead me down the path of my proper destiny.
Whatever the reason, it's the explanation that currently makes the most sense to me. I saw a signal. I saw something that told me to wake up, and now I have.
But I'm starting to think I still need some more sleep.
It's strange to think I've made it this far without something getting in my way. I haven't been caught yet. I'm starting to wonder if anyone is even looking for me. I tell myself that I don't care, that the only future I have lies to the west, but I can't shake that feeling of, I don't know, something. Homelessness, maybe? Oh well, I'm a nomad now.
I grabbed my bags and ambled into the station with the rest of the living dead. I'm actually surprised that I was able to sleep. The last thing I remember was stopping at some small town in New Mexico, the name of which has long escaped. I'm just grateful that I didn't wake up on a lawn this time. That's the funny thing about sleeping on long trips--you want to doze off to help the time pass more quickly, but the next time your eyes open, you're a stranger in a strange land.
God, I have to stay here for another hour. I'm in no condition to write much at the moment, but I like filling in the blanks whenever I get the chance--makes a journal feel more like a journal. I don't really think I can read, either. Besides, now that I've finished Calvino, all I really want to do is finish Kafka on the Shore--the one book I no longer have. Damn it. Why didn't I look for a bookstore back in Roswell? I would've had plenty of time.
Maybe I'll have some coffee, as if that would even help. I have a lot of sleep to catch up on, and I have a feeling that as soon as I make myself comfortable, I'll pass out again. Maybe that's for the best. California still feels so far away.
***
Well, I was right. I grabbed a cup of coffee at the bus station in Phoenix and spent the remainder of the hour in a state of complete disarray. I changed back into my hoodie and found an empty bench outside, where the crisp early morning air was enough to keep me awake. So there I sat, my back against the cold brick wall and a hood covering my head in the still darkness. I was invisible again. I was awake, and I was in control But as soon as I took my seat on the bus in Phoenix, I fell asleep.
It was a nice sleep, a dreamless sleep. I didn't know what to expect, to be perfectly honest. Wait, that's not right. I knew exactly what to expect. I expected a dream. There's only one that's on my mind now. Our bus is traveling down a dark highway, machines as big as mountains blocking the sun, and then the largest opens. The light spills forth.
I'll see it again in one form or another. I know I will. Other people have seen it. So unless I'm dreaming the paintings of some urban vinyl artist I've never met or even heard of before, I know I'm not completely crazy. There's more to the dream than random imagery that was hatched inside my unconscious mind. It has to be the light--the light I saw as a kid, the light from the machine. It's blinding, encompassing. It's like a beacon.
Now there's a theory I haven't considered before. Maybe when I saw that light--the first light--it was meant just for me. I wasn't some innocent bystander stricken with an increasing paranoia. I was the target. Sure, that's not as realistic as some astronomical phenomenon or as unselfish as a random alien visitation, but what if it was a message directed only at me? By whom, I don't know. Someone from far away, in space or time or both. Maybe it's a message from my future self--some grand, self-invoked event that would lead me down the path of my proper destiny.
Whatever the reason, it's the explanation that currently makes the most sense to me. I saw a signal. I saw something that told me to wake up, and now I have.
But I'm starting to think I still need some more sleep.
It's strange to think I've made it this far without something getting in my way. I haven't been caught yet. I'm starting to wonder if anyone is even looking for me. I tell myself that I don't care, that the only future I have lies to the west, but I can't shake that feeling of, I don't know, something. Homelessness, maybe? Oh well, I'm a nomad now.
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