The cruellest curse must be the ability to feel poetry in the late night yellow lamps of lonely highways and not having the right words to express the emotions it evokes. I sit alone with a pile of burnt-out cigarettes and count seven heavy trucks in eighteen minutes – the rapid crescendo, the sharp rattle as it hits a pothole, and then fade to black – until, again. Strange men with no names traveling to stranger places so that their women can feed their children – or so I like to think.
Ever since I was a child, I have looked for stories in the eyes of people I will never know. The impish redhead of dear old Green Gables has left me with something that makes it impossible for my heart to find home in the too-bright, too-loud days of my city. So, I have found my cure in lonely nights stolen from the merciless routine – like tucking daisies in between the dusty pages of old library books.
I count seven stories in eighteen minutes and watch the digital clock on my phone silently tick away the minutes – 3.10AM – the hour of the sad, the defeated. This is not how I envisioned my twenties. I believed them when they told me that this would be the best decade of my life – glorious years when everything fell into place magically – like a puzzle without a single missing piece. Instead, I seem to have become the missing piece myself – meant to belong to something greater, but left forgotten at the bottom of a child’s toy trunk. I have been in search of purpose, of meaning, but all I have found is a deep envy for the midnight-truck-men, with their wheels moving steadily towards brighter days. Their faces have blurred but their conviction still burns bright in eyes that hunger for more.
I have looked for stories all my life and everywhere I turned, I found a zeal for life, but the mirror still shows a profound emptiness – a defeated shell. I have tried to build homes out of people only to realise that the world has no place for the lost.
– 3.12AM // find me, cause i’ll never find you