Jeff

Tucked in the shadows of some apartment complex on Baymeadows that consumes itself with tonight in order to forget about their tomorrow’s. I of course are one of these blokes, that tends at the shit hole bar that serves all of these folks. Happy or content, I’m not sure I know I know the difference. See I was talking to Jeff at the bar who made me think about what I’m missing. Surely I was made for more than to serve couples at a bar that prefer to drink alone. And although it’s great material for my boyfriend and me to fill the space we have when we’re not thinking. See, I told Jeff that I like to write, hesitant of course because I’m not sure if I’m exaggerating my abilities. Sure, not everyone does but please tell me what’s the difference between a writer and someone else that’s too different to connect with. And there I sat, with this friend of mine and a simple comment became an interrogation on what is to become of this life of mine. As I sat there in silence and Jeff he yells “just write it” I wondered what life looked like had I actually wrote about it. My aunt, she sits in France and lives outside the market. She imagines great stories of mystery and murder she sells her thoughts to those that watch and lives a life abundant from those that bought it. My mother always told me this was my calling. But I always thought that was just the wine that was talking. I moved her on words I wrote that I thought she’d think was boring, she believed in me but I guess I always felt that was just her duty. 

Could Jeff be right? Was this cherry Gatorade and shot of Jameson and an empty chair next to Jeff him self the moment that started my life of stories? 

Was this my mother reminding me that the time I’ve wasted in between her life is the kryptonite to all my glory? All the same I said goodbye to Jeff and all the other guys. 2 minutes and 49 seconds is all I had to spare before coming home and held captive of all that’s still there. During that time of driving all I thought about was writing and I couldn’t help it, is my life the way it’s always been because that’s the only way anyone would ever buy it?