Anachronism

ANACHRONISM— My hands shake violently, from the cocaine or the cold, I can’t tell. I fumble with my camera, trying to figure the flash but fail with flailing fingers. I grit my teeth and grind them down to thin, enamel-less nubs. For the first time in awhile, I am desensitized to my sensitivity. I feel nothing, save a slow chemical drip trailing down my viscous esophagus. We sit at the water tower for another minute or hour. I count the streetlights lining the city that isn’t mine anymore. Orange hues and white lights laterally cover cookie cutter housing tracts and pale paint stripped strip malls. Inside taupe houses with top-shelf liquors live clones of families I’ve known over and again. In cheap convenience stores shifty-eyed clerks behind counters smack their gum and smoke cigarettes in the back office. They glare me like a petty thief, like I'm not an adult. I remind myself I am one, I’m not fifteen anymore. But I look in the mirror and note familiar dark circles under red rims, a clenched jaw and cataclysmic burn behind my eyes that could make my mother cry. I don’t know who I am anymore and I wonder if I ever did. Or if I’ve adapted every guise and disguise from every place I’ve been lost. For what? I know where I belong. I know I belong climbing aspen plenty mountains in the winters, springs, summers, falls. I know I fit into the corner of my bed, curled up in blankets, surrounded by my sole mates. Riverside isn’t my home anymore, no matter how small and suburban I feel. I make a mental note that I’m an anachronism and I leave my facades in my formative years. My legs shake violently, because I can’t seem to catch a still moment in bed. The hours pass from two to three to four to five to six to sunrise pulling me from my last thirty minute interval. A night of disappointment, or a night of realization, I can’t tell. #classassignment #creativenonfiction #cnf #nonfiction #revision

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