Somewhere over Macedonia I start crying. The lights are off in the cabin and the myth of Greece is long gone.
A record of lightnings sways over the city as I lie awake, washing with salt water. On the balcony I wear striped tights out of steel bar shadows. Spiders nest and wait to catch. Places you once left are truly fires parching the past, using the air from tonight. I wash with salt water.
Here, you can feel, hear and absorb every squeak, murmur and car passing. I’m used to the mix of fans, neighbors talking, arguing, cars, music and cops harassing. In quiet like this, every sound becomes a reason not to fall asleep.
And then we wake up. Hungover from too much salty water, sweat and tears, hoping to get some more of the last pot of coffee the house has to offer. A bunch of people making small noises to tie tiny knots of companionship together. None of it worth crying over.
When the cramps come, there’s not much to do. Pop those pills, make your stomach cry, wash it with salt. Realize that everything you’ve ever done was pointless. That the future is nothing but a pointless blur. Sure, you’ll be happy. But you’ll also be sad.