Looking out at the lights of Bossier City from the 20th floor of a seedy casino hotel, drowning in a pool of my own chemically-enhanced sweat, a feeling of immortality pounding through my veins... It really starts to snap things into perspective. Balancing on the small ledge of the window, I lean against the gold-tinted glass and feel as if I could easily fly out alongside the numerous vultures that nest on the neon letters that spell out the name of my self-imposed prison. I'm craving fresh air, and to be at sea level once again, but each trip down the mirrored elevator poses a threat of seeing a farmiliar face, being noticed by security, or propositioned by yet another wayward soul that sees my black clothing in this Louisiana heat as an invitation for paid company. The freshest air I can look forward to until this immortality subsides is the frigid blast of the air conditioner and the smell of the Bossier waterworks, an unfriendly combination of swamp water and chlorine.
I'd ask how it came to all this, but the answer is already obvious and glaring in my direction like the old woman that heard me on the phone to M. earlier, using the word "fuck" like we were dear old friends.
I begin to feel suffocated and frantic at the thought of being low and high at the same time. After careful deliberation, I decide to brave the mirrors and the security cameras for a walk in the real world. An abrasive shower, a layer of human color, long-sleeves and bandanas regardless of the 90-degree night, and I'm ready to brave society again. I'd ask myself how I became this nocturnal monster, but the answer is too obvious and too intimidating to face, and blaming the security blanket that hides in the bottom of my luggage in a small sunglass case is too unappreciative.
I start hoping that a wayward soul will be as lost in the lobby as I am in my own head. No one likes to feel alone when the big picture is beckoning for attention.
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