Mexican Music, 7.

Three years ago.

I’m sitting on a park bench in Montpelier, Vermont reading Charles Simic. It is the beginning of September and an early autumn has come. The pickup is in need of repairs of which I cannot afford. I figure I have one more long drive left in it. Not sure. My money is tight; little opportunity here for work. Simic will guide me.

Montpelier is the smallest state capital in the union. Around seven thousand people live in this picturesque town. It is a combination of the old and the hep. A town where an attitude prevails from it’s youth. Every young hippie from America eventually winds up here on their travels. Guitars carried in cases, scented oils bouncing off their bodies, and a constant stoned look upon dirty faces. White kids with dreadlocks far away from home. Following Phish, or, the Dead, or what’s left of the Dead; they don’t want the party to end.

And, maybe I’m no different. I’m running across America too. Running on high and low octane. My energy goes up and crashes down within hours. A constant roller-coaster ride. I used to take pills for this; a lot of pills. Before hitting the road I quit cold turkey. All my pills tossed out; anti-depressants, mood stabilizers, heavy doses. Some days I feel as though anything is possible. Other days the feeling of death takes over. I am hungry, cold, tired, and ready to crash. “I can’t go on. You must go on. I will go on.”

Published by:

dmseay

The writing is based on my surroundings and what I've been surrounded by. This language is coarse and politically incorrect; which I make no apologies for. These characters are not nice and to use any other dialogue would be disingenuine. That being said, I choose to roll the dice. dm seay

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