I awoke in the back seat of the car under a blanket too thin to keep out the morning cold. I awoke with the comfortable disorientation of not knowing who I was or what had happened to me, what had brought me to the back seat of the car, how long I had been sleeping, how long I had been living. Slowly it came back, years and memories connecting like constellations or the dewdrops that adsorbed on the misty windshield. I remembered who I was and that it was better to be asleep, that the blanket I had was not enough, the box of crackers almost empty, the half can of soda too little to drink.
If I could expand that morning’s disorientation and cover my future with the emptiness of not knowing, the little despairs would never condense on the surface of my hope. But a cold morning is, and I am, and the past is the highway I’ve come from. It is not possible to drive back and there is no gasoline to drive forward.