Where to pick up?

Sometimes weeks pass filled with images of cocktails floating past me on a conveyor belt. Different drinks, moving past me, as I pick them up and drain them and more arrive as the faces around me change, as do the locations.

There are smiles and laughter and late nights, deep conversations about life and loss and grand plans and questions about where we are going.

There are teasing boys and bad influences. Sometimes they face me like the barker at a carnival, enticing with their deals shouted left and right, "5 more minutes! 1 more drink!" as I try to focus on which ring of my circus I am currently living in.

There are solemn moments of sobriety, standing in churchs, holding prayer books. The silence that makes my head feel weightless as I walk up the aisle of a small town church to face pews filled with hulking members of family who may as well as be blood for as welcome as they make me feel. There's the feeling of something passing through me as my hand skims the hem of the sacred tapestry covering a casket, and my hands shake as I stare at the hartfelt words written by someone close to me, about someone everyone loved dearly.

I take deep, sober breaths and I read. That's all that's left. The cocktail conveyor belt has somehow not only stopped, but completely disappeared and I am left standing with my hand inches from the deceased, reading. I am the Voice. The only voice bouncing off the walls of a small community parish that has baptized and married and buried hundreds before me.

And later, the faces in front of me are family. All family. Even later, there are tiny pills. Tiny pills, passed from one to another. We barely exchange words.

There are new friends who somehow, fit seamlessly into the mix. They show up out of the blue and they fit, and the conveyor belt starts up again, safe from the holy barrier that prevented it earlier.

But this time, the faces aren't all friendly. There's a girl, on her way to the bottom of a downward spiral. Her pipes leaking everywhere and she has no idea. She puts her coat on and takes it off a series of times as she desparately tries to formulate a way to get her next bump.

Her Karma is burning. I can see it burning around her aura, like smog. It looks painful and broken in areas. It hurts me to look at her. I try to make eye contact when we speak, to see if she's still in there or if the powder has taken over her soul as well.

I can't find her eyes. They are rolling all over the place.

I feel sick in my stomach from looking at her. I feel sick about feeling sick. I want something else. I am standing in a room full of people, but none of the right ones. I want my people. I don't want to be alone, like her.

The lights go one. I feel a sense of panic - It can't be time already can it??

And then things are ok. We find our way to a safe place. We are all together as the sun rises.

There is a nap, more a senseless stop to recharge and then I am propelled again.

New faces. New drinks. There's a moment. A moment when we stop and turn and stare at the sun streaming from beyond the Vet, illuminating the Liberty Bell, high on the stadium skyline. There are cheers from hundreds and fight songs over the sound of nitrous ripping into rubber and keg stands.

There is disappointment. Sinking disappointment. Everything stops and sinks in. My spirit is there but the container holding it is tired.

Life is fast. Sometimes, like a speeding locomotive. I just hope that I get on the right train.

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