Gravel in My Shoes

I bought that "Person of the Year" Time magazine. Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert made fun of it and I am legion, so I had little choice in the matter.

I've been horrendously upset for the last few days. I'm fine at the moment. I'm clear at the moment. That's how it feels. When I'm upset (typically for reasons I can't define), I feel as though I'm filled with gravel. Bits of rock crush my innards, cut off all blood, stifle all thought, dull all sensation. When there is no gravel, there is a hollowness. The hollowness is creepy, but it's better than the gravel.

Currently, my skin is abandoned Tupperware. It encapsulates a void. I feel as though I'm operating without a soul. A strange conclusion, considering that it implies a belief in the Judeo-Christian idea of a soul and, by proxy, God and heaven and water to wine and so on -- which is certainly not my intent (nor my belief). I guess I just feel as though I am lacking the bit that is supposed to make me know that I am a human -- that I am a sentient being with a purpose beyond perpetuation of my species. That's gone. I feel like a bug now. I think this is how insects function. I respond only to tangible stimuli. My actions are now geared toward sustaining my physical being -- got to eat, got to stay warm, got to sleep.

Over the last week or so, if my hunger and shelter are tended to, I simply go to sleep and wait for the next biological imperative to arise.

That's all in the absence of gravel. When I feel horrible, I'm not even concerned about the basics of survival.

When sitting around becomes potentially fatal, I go for a walk. And I do this at night in an area with which I am unfamiliar. Because doing so is dangerous. It's dark, it's below freezing, I don't know where I am, no one else knows where I am, and I have no destination in mind. It's a stupid, reckless, destructive thing to do. I know that. That's why I don't bring my wallet.

Some people do coke. Some people have anonymous sex. I go for brisk jaunts that last a couple of hours. That's what I did tonight.

It's easy to walk fast and without direction when filled with crud. There's no room for any conscious thought. There are no available resources to devote to forethought or emotions. Slipping into auto-pilot is unintentional and oh so delightful. That's why I do it.

I will eventually begin to care about my well-being. It takes about an hour for this to occur. Early on, I don't hesitate to walk down an unlit side street or to stop and stare at a pair of children's skates on the side of the road, drawing attention to myself and my lone status in the process. By the end, though (which is why it becomes the end), I'll stop when I spot a drunk, stumbling man ahead of me whom I would overtake if I continued. I suddenly realize that I care. I realize that I feel better. So I turn around and head back the way I came.

I stopped at a gas station convenience store on my return trip (which is apparently the only business open at 4 am). That's where I bought the Time magazine. I asked the male clerk about the Help Wanted sign out front.

"It's for the graveyard shift," he said. "They won't hire girls."

Makes sense. That would be dangerous. And that's why I would want to work it.