True Love At The End Of The World

    I’m sitting here in this room again, staring at the off white colored walls of a place that has come to mean my safety in this god forsaken world, and waiting for it all to come crashing in around me. The motel paintings of desert scenes, cheap furniture that a twin in every room, the sheets on the bed, it all began to feel like home to me. So odd. I thought I was actually going to make it this time, actually going to shed the feelings of failure that have plagued my entire life, but those assholes fired me and ten other people a week ago, and now I’m here in this room again. Don’t want to go outside, find another job, and try to save myself again. Don’t want to do much of anything except curl up into a ball, run my fingers through my greasy hair and pretend like nothing is happening to me at all. I’ve become afraid of everything that is not in this room to the point of being crippled mentally and physically. FUCK! I thought all of this was over and passed me but I’m just repeating the same shit over and over in my head every second of the day.  
          It’s amazing how the digital numbers of the alarm clock look a lot like time wasted as the hours pass by and daylight is dimming from the only window. It’s funny to me that part of what I was looking to do was get more in touch with Christ but now I’m looking at the phone with more awe and adoration than I do the rosary over by the TV. Right now the voices on the other end of the line are my savior, I need them if I’m to survive this, and they all sound like lovely angels in my ears. I’m looking for a savior who seems real right now, someone who wouldn’t mind smacking me around until I wake the fuck up, and won’t let me go back to sleep until I’m suppose to. I feel like a goddamn zombie who is looking for a purpose but can’t step outside the door until the sun goes down and he’s sure no one is staring. I have become positive that if anyone sees me they’ll know right away that I failed again in every possible way. At least over the phone they can’t see me, they can’t look into my eyes as I make my confessions, as I talk about my sins in earnest; it’s a comfort not to see their expressions.  
          I sit here and I can hear the planes taking off from the airport down the road, I wonder where they’re going in the middle of the night, and where ever it is I’d like to be going along for the ride. I’d like to put miles between me and most everyone I know. Go somewhere no one knows me or the sins I’ve committed against my fellow man as well as myself. Perhaps I’ll get a job at some gas station or diner out in the middle of nowhere, get a room at some cheap motel, and recreate myself in some forgotten orifice of America. I think I could become holy again under these circumstances. Then one day she walks in, where she’s someone I’ve known before or someone completely new has yet to be seen, but she’s the one for me. Maybe I’ll light her cigarette and we’ll go find a place to talk away a few hours. As I listen to another plane take off my heartaches for her, the non-existent “SHE” of my dreams. I take another sip of my beer and let my mind linger there for a time. God, she’s gorgeous.    
    The other night I had this dream that I woke up as the sun was coming through the blinds, I was disoriented and I sat up to try and figure out where the hell I was, and then I remembered that I was in my bedroom with my woman lying next to me breathing gently into her pillow. I lay down again facing her and from that vantage point her body looked like some dark mountain range with the sun having not quite risen over the peaks, the wrinkles in the comforter made valleys and jags in the side of the mountain, I suddenly saw myself wandering up the side in a long contemplative moment of the soul as the sun began to slowly rise and illuminate the land.  I wanted to climb to the top and kiss the ground of the highest peak formed by her left hip as she lay on her side with her back to me. I turned away from her to face the ceiling as I dwelled in the thought of climbing to the top of that alien mountain range and looking out over the land beyond. I felt a sense of home coming which smelled of her favorite shampoo which she had used loyally since she was a teenager.    
When I woke up I had this scenario playing in my head and I sat up in bed and had a morning smoke while letting my imagination run with it for a long while. The cops were out to get me for something I hadn’t even done or maybe I was too drunk to remember that I did it. I woke up with blood on my hands, clothes, the sheets were soaken through and through, and I couldn’t even remember how I got to bed the night before. I knew that I was gonna have to make a run for it if I was gonna make it out alive, hope the border of reality, and maybe open a little shop where they sell voodoo dolls and shrunken heads. I wondered if she’d come with me if I had to run, if she’d be the high priestess of the ancient cult I made up off the top of my head in order to sell hand made native craft work that was assembled in a factory in Taiwan. I could just picture her all decked out in the native garb of our people who have not been born yet but like to dress all colorful feathers and fabrics.  
    I could hear the police helicopters flying over head. “They’ll never stop looking for me, I thought, and soon they’ll find my hide out in this jungle of stone and steel.”  Not even my feeble attempts at blending in with the native cannibal tribes of society will stop them from bringing the nets down on me. Maybe we could buy a villa on some lonely stretch of beach with the money we made off of rich white tourists who love to spend their money on authentic imitation tribal art pieces.  Every night when the moon is highest in the sky we could go out and run through the surf together in the shadows and wonder how we ever thought we could make it in the world of man before we found each other and fell in love.  
    While lying in the night damp sand I’ll point to some lonely star in the black blanket of night and name it after her and we’ll fall asleep with visions and thoughts of “UNION” in our heads. Who the fuck knows how we ever got our fierce ideas of love and life and what is true happiness?  Most certainly not from our mothers, and fathers, and the constant bombardment of opinions of our peers. How many new aged fads on relationships have we had to suffer through and be wounded by over the years before we reached that beach of sand and cool shadowed water of night love?  
    I knew I would have to escape this current mind fuck before I could worry about the rest of my life. I could hear the blades of the helicopters whirling round, the pigs circling like vultures come to pick my bones clean, and soon the dogs would be on me. But maybe we made enough off the rich whites and bought a private island somewhere far enough away where all the bullshit worries of the rest of the world wouldn’t matter from where we sat.  I could catch our dinner for us every night and we could tell each other stories of our lives or make up new ones.  When the rest of society decided to finally self destruct we could go down on the beach and watch the show from a good safe distance, make love while the mushroom cloud rises high in the sky, and bask in the warm radioactive mutating glow to become super human beings.  
“Sigh.”  
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