Vagabonds: Anthology of the Mad Ones Vagabonds Vol. 3 | Página 43

not be dropping down for a few more days. They’ll sing again for it one
day, if either hasn’t forgotten the sacred.
He stopped taking melatonin for he wanted to sleep naturally; to feel the
tossing of the bed, the turning of each spring as the body curves and
moves over them. He wanted to hear the dogs howl at the moon, invisible,
black, hidden in front of the world; to experience the night life while he
rested himself for the labor of the morning. He couldn’t hear them this
morning. They weren’t asleep, but he couldn’t hear them as he felt his feet
walking, hands opening the door to the darkened hallway—no need for
light as they’ve memorized everything on the ground before them. He was
dressed, and although he wanted nothing more than to keep walking, make
it to the state line and have a new life, the autopilot sat him in his car and
he was off as the sun slowly rose in the sky. The dew still sitting on his
window, disrupted by the windshield blades switching like a metronome,
conducting the music of the car.
He drove off to his day; the day of “how can I help you,” and “I cannot
account for anything that another representative has told you, but it
appears your problem lies elsewhere.” He’ll arrive at his destination at his
normal time, fifteen minutes before opening the business, walk to the fax
machine and send the same message to quench the thirst of his debt, only
society can’t collect on it. There were days he never expected a call back
from some people, and there were days where he stayed next to his phone,
even if it were turned off for non-payment.
He’ll sing the same anthem tomorrow, the next day or any other day until
there was a reason for him to stop singing it; until the road he imagined
had finally appeared on the map. Running around with outdated material
isn’t helpful for the soul, but the soul can be an irritable beast—chained
beneath the mistakes. She rose in the morning, tinting the sky with a harsh,
hellishly orange glow. It blinded him as he drove, but he knew where the
road was. The radio tripping, talking, buzzing against the static of early
morning shows, and barely waking commutes. How easy it would be to
keep driving. And though roads connect and return, bridge and complete,
turns are still an easy item to miss. How fickle the universe can be.
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