Regarding Goals, A Short Story.
March 13, 2008
I sit head in left hand on porch stairs. Warm, wooden, chalky porch stairs. Staring out towards the future where everything I want is hiding forever. I used to think I was getting there. Flat orange and burnt purple this time of day. People and businesses winding down. Hot and dry like pottery fresh from the kiln. If I just sit here long enough, maybe I'll know what to do next.
I've been treading water for so long it feels scary to just sit here. Just sit here and sink like a stone in this warm dusk and this pint of rye. Finally just letting it all bubble up around me and suck me down bit by bit. I used to have dreams where I could breath underwater.
The sun is sinking lower, just a crescent now above the dry and dusty mountains. I think about things that I've done and things that I haven't. I wonder why I can't just pay more attention sometimes, maybe get a couple of things right the first go around. Take another plug of rye and stare down at the bottom of the bottle. There's never any answers hiding down there. The evening slows down methodically like an old kinetic watch that nobody's bothered to wind up.
Sometimes I just want to sink to the bottom, just to see whats down there. Not now though, and maybe not never. I best get a decent nights sleep, cause I'll need to start swimming again in the morning.
Tags for this piece: goals fiction story