Streams of Consciousness – Walking Home

I just spent a couple of hours turning off and tuning out. I am walking myself home and rebooting. This should only take twenty minutes and I am always in the mood for the exercise. Now where exactly am I in relation to my house? I mean, I know where I am. I grew up here. But the physical direction has not registered on my inner compass and I am just going to pick a way and work it out.

I wonder if I should write about this. A possibility, if I can remove my head from my ass long enough to sit in front of the laptop. Here, let me make this phone call.

Talking, talking, talking.

Why did I end up on this corner? I am going in the opposite direction suddenly. No walking and phoning. Let me just text Melissa.

Okay, I will ask her if I can call.

Aaaand it is dead. How the hell will I keep my hands busy so I am not left daydreaming about all the adulting I need to do?

The better food, yoga, work, sleep. I need to sleep. But I need to write first. Yeah, I think I will do that. About this walk home. I think of so many things when I am wandering the neighborhood. Spitfire thoughts that disappear as quickly as they come and I am going to change that for one night. I have begun a recon mission in search of my often extremely boisterous creativity. I know it is there but I can’t pin it down. I need to make progress.

The breeze. Fucking fall is coming. Yes.

How did I make it all the way to the cemetery?

If I turn this corner and run smack into a serial killer, I will just poke him to death with my lit cigarette and scream into the windows of unsuspecting Slope-sters.

Aaaand nothing. Phew. I thought I was a goner.

There is that guy, leaning a little as he is walking from that house. He is obviously trashed, weaving back and forth across the cement about 10 yards in front of me. I wonder out loud a few times which way I would be taking to get home and just end up across the street from the cemetery. I spend another minute walking behind the drunkard and observing his intentions (of which there seems to be none), finally trusting him enough that I could make myself known as I skip to the graveyard side of the street. He is not batting an eye. His goal is most likely heading down to the avenue to continue his evening. I was not even a tiny blip. There is no blipping.

I think they tended to the grass in there today. I crossed too late though, I won’t enjoy much of it. It took me too long to trust that drunk man in front of me.

The statue stemming from the water is lighting up the horizon on my little street in Brooklyn. It was 96 degrees today, where the hell is this breeze coming from? I thought it may just be the cemetery but apparently not. Oh sweet Lord, there is not one person driving on 6th Avenue. It is August. Everyone is on the Sound with Nick Carraway and Jay Gatsby. Probably should have had phone access this whole walk. I hate pointlessly worrying about something. Tis’ nature.

Look, a beat up cardboard box seated at the bottom of someone’s stoop. It is picked dry. “Scavengers.” I repeat that twice more out loud as I reason that there was probably not a good selection of books in the box anyway. It’s usually a chance type of thing. Holy apartment building, Batman. I almost walked right by my front door.

Oh damn it. Where are my keys?

At least it is early if I have to buzz the intercom.

And now I am in. I believe there were cookies here somewhere.

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