Distraction

He only writes about neon signs any more. The signs and their flickering. It depresses him, makes him think about jumping off a bridge. These days, it seems, he even thinks in cliches.

In his mind, however, he does not die upon hitting the water, nor is he dashed on a sharp, stony crag. The water is deep and warm. As it fills his lungs, it revitalizes him. He is made strong in his drowning.

When he finally wakes from his fantasy, he makes a decision. To move on, to leave everything behind. To go somewhere devoid of neon lights and bristlefaced men and other hardboiled cliches.

He knows he has only moved from one fantasy to another, but it doesn’t matter. He knows also that by day’s end he will have settled back into his tired routines, probably. But for now he dreams of South America. Jungles. Unpaved roads. Little brown children with mud on their faces. These thoughts sustain him.

Outside his window, a neon light flickers in the dark night. He closes his blinds and feels the water fill his lungs. He is made alive in his drowning.

2009