Plenty of Sunshine Though.

Dear K,

I've been out of the world for a little while. I guess. I don't know. I haven't posted anything in response, mostly because I haven't had anything new to say. I'm really pleased that you're happy.

I'm in a sort of purgatory. I feel the edges of towns calling to me. I'm getting restless and I want to go for long midnight drives across the prairie. I want to roll into towns and make miracles happen in my wake.

I've been fixing other people's problems. Maybe I've been doing that so long because I don't want to fix any of my own. But my biggest problem is something that I can't fix.

I'm lonely. I talk to friends, and that works for a while. I talk to old flames, and there's nothing there. I'm haunted by the empty space in my bed.

People make it sound so easy. They talk about going out to bars and fucking somebody. They talk about pick ups and booty calls and numbers written on cocktail napkins.

They also talk about romantic comedies. Somebody just falls out of the sky and loves them.

I think I might have to be alone forever, for my writing.

My writing is getting better. I practice everyday at work. I practice pacing out the paragraphs. I practice people talking to each other, careful not to reveal what they really mean. But mostly I practice putting a pen to paper and letting the words flow out like blood or guts or snot or tears or laughter, the things that cut you open and show something underneath these hard crusty shells we build up.

It's been a while since we've had rain in this part of the world. It's been hot, and so humid. It's been so humid your clothes stick to you the minute you walk out your front door. They suck up right next to your skin, and no matter how loose your collar is, it seems to be choking in the swampy heat.

 You know what they used to call the midwest? All the prairies? They used to call them "The Great American Desert". That's what it was labeled on the maps.

I think I might be a desert.
It's been a while since I've had some rain,

K