Today Is A Good Day

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He asked me about New York. I keep forgetting I don’t live there anymore. I keep showing up at the same coffee shop in my mind, expecting it to still be December. I said I tend to leave places without really leaving them.

It’s just you, he said. You always want to be somewhere else.

Ten years ago he made me a wallet full of CDs, I recently found them amongst the boxes of stuff I’ve promised my mother I’ll sort through. I’ve been listening to the CDs every day.

Not always, I said, today is a good day. We were at a coffee shop, out on the patio, 9622 miles from the coffee shop in my head. I was wearing sunglasses. A girlfriend recently preached to me of their importance. Your eyes are giving you away, she said, they’re all walking right on in. We talked about western society, consciousness and art, about the wheel the goes around and around and around. He said I seem to have complicated thought patterns. I just give myself away.

I drove up the coast today to the place I always called my favorite in the world, before I’d really seen any of the world. I listened to the CD marked “June 2004.” For an hour I was seventeen, the windows were all the way down, the love songs were playing loud. Walking across the boardwalk I ran into someone I used to know. There is a famous quote about the world being a small town. We hugged. She said I looked well, said she heard I was in New York. Before we parted she motioned to the coffee in my hand, asked me where to get one. I pointed to the stand in the park behind us. I said I don’t know anymore, if there is anywhere else to go.