Sometimes I dream so angry I drive on roads and can’t see straight. I chain my knuckles to the steering wheel in hopes that it will help get a grip. The road moves faster than I can and for moments I think I am drunk. Drunk on something. In the mornings I wake up sweat slick and stuck to the unwashed pillow case, my heart racing and my fists clenched around the balled up sheets, they pray to be set free. I try to think of other ways to start today, that if I go back to sleep something else will happen, that if I drink enough coffee I will write something vital, that maybe today I should just drive. You asked my why I hadn’t been writing and that was strange for me because I didn’t know you had been reading. I carve out little spaces in the day to think about all of this. I kept on saying happiness is a choice, it’s a choice, it’s a choice. And I still believe it.


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