cabs (unfinished)

trying my hand at fiction [written a few nights ago at an ungodly hour]

I'm sitting in this cab, some grey shitbox cab. It's drizzling and I'm high on God knows what. Yeah, I'm going to be awake for a long time. The thought of having to wake up at 7 tomorrow flits through my mind, but i choose to ignore it. God, I want a cigarette. If I were in New York I could smoke in the cab. Fuck this city. Fuck the rain and the mountain and the 2$ Chow Mein. I want sunshine and buildings and people with accents (not french ones). But I'll stay here. Yeah, college. Yeah, grades. Yeah, lung cancer for dad. Yeah, dying alone for mom. Yeah, - wait, what's for me?

 "So uh, where's your accent from?" The cab driver asks me. I don't really have the energy to tell him. But I want to move my mouth. "Oh, it's from Spain. Kind of. Well, no. I mean, it's my English accent fucking with my French. I mean, my dad is from Morocco, so I guess I learned to speak French from him." I can almost feel the cab driver roll his eyes. But he doesn't. He just says, "Yeah, I could tell there was something weird about your French." Fuck, this guy wants a conversation. He wants to make up for his nights lost driving. His late night coffees lost dragging drunk people across town. His dinner dates stepping on the gas pedal. He's from Haiti he says. Shit, I don't know what to say. Haiti. Fuck. Earthquake. Or something. Why am I so braindead? I nod. And throw in a "Aaaoohhwwww…" Yeah, his French is pretty messy. But then again, so is mine. As is his natal country. 

I look out the window. It's all fogged up around the edges. Kind of like me. Or maybe it's the other way around. Maybe I'm fogged up right in the centre. Yeah, that must be it. We aren't going fast, but it's nice. I see grey outside. This warm shade of grey, a golden glow cast over the rainy townhouse steps from the reflections of the streetlamps. The car lights are like fireflies. I've never seen a firefly. The cab driver is saying something. Something about Boston. Oh, he lived there. Why aren't we speaking English, then? Fuck. 

Monologues. I want to go home, and all I'm getting are fucking monologues. Of course, he wants me to respond. To open up. To recount my life story and tell him about the great loves of my life. Tell him about my trips to Thailand to discover myself. Or my pregnancy scare. How I've got a dentist appointment, and I'm terrified of drills. How New York is my favourite city. Oh, I did say that. Yeah, he brought up New York. "The nightclubs are always open there." He says. He's cool. He reminds me of my dad. He tells me he'll drive me all the way home, because he's concerned for my safety. I tell him I don't have enough. He just waves his hand. 

I'm almost home, ready to put on my robe and have a cigarette. He stops in front of my door, and I give him all the change I've got. "Thank you thank you thank you.", I say. He waves his hand again, "Pas de probleme." He says, and chuckles. I wish him a wonderful night, and he tells me to have a beautiful life. "Maybe we'll meet again someday in another taxi.", he says. I laugh and close the cab door. I walk into my building, and the cab is still stalled outside. He waits for me to go in and takes off. I go upstairs. 

I'm not tired, yet.

[this story is unfinished, but I decided to post it anyway. i hope it's okay.]

nighttime

hi.
it's been a while.
i just walked to the old port from saint urbain and mont-royal and i'm dead.
i got catcalled by sketchy lebanese guys in vans, and i had my exacto knife ready for action
(my mum gave it to me, the batcase that she is, to protect myself because there were muggings in the area).
it was gorgeous and mild, but windy as fuck.

i haven't been posting much lately... i guess i just haven't been inspired to write.

i've been thinking a lot, recently.
thinking feels good, again.
i like the feeling of putting on deafeningly loud music and lying in my dark bedroom, dreaming and contemplating and feeling and exploring the depths of my mind.

it's becoming easier for me to do that.
i feel like i've been equipped with a little headlight that miners wear.
a little headlight that lets me explore the caverns and grottos burrowed deep within the twists and turns and cavities of my brain.
sometimes it's nice, sometimes it's too much to handle.
but most of the time, it feels good.
i learn.
i have the capacity to learn.
i think that for a long time, i didn't have that capacity.
or maybe i just didn't want to accept it.
either way, i now have it.

i realized that i don't want to waste my time worrying and being scared and feeling anxious and sad and grim.
i'm tired of arguing.
and i'm tired of being phony and fake and befriending people not because i like them, but because it's convenient.
when you think about it, too many friendships are based more on convenience than anything else.
we're teenagers, it's normal.
but more and more, our friendships are based on drugs, and smoking, and whoever is free to hang out.
not who you like, and who is interesting, and who you want to have a conversation with.
i think it's sad.
i think it's sad that we've all got those friends that we don't particularly want to hang out with, but "what the fuck else are gonna do?".

running away, fairweather friends, joint out back,
it's all a part of it.
but sooner or later, it's time to grow up.
it's time to grow up and grow out of settling for whatever,
because you don't deserve any better.

it's how it goes.

it was nice spilling some baggage.

have a lovely evening/day.

see you at the tams !

xx