Swim

     I haven't felt like I have a home in quite some time. Not that I don't have some place to sleep; I have three. I never know which one I'll be going to when I get off work. I don't spend much time at these places either way; I'm either working or biking there. 

     I never finish a task. I want to clean something, but I'm never around to do it. I want to research something, but I'm never stationary for long enough to organize it. In short, I rarely do what I want to do because I'm always working to fund myself so I can afford to do what I want to do. I'd rather be sitting in a dimly lit jazz club, music I love calming me, writing to resolve whatever conflicts gnaw at me that day. 

     I sip a cool lemonade and gently bite my pen. The bassist has an expression on his face as if he's floating on his back in the ocean, completely adjusted to the temperature of the water and completely content with the fact that he will never reach shore. I've seen that expression on so many faces. I'm happy for him.

     He hits the last chord, bows with the rest of his rhythm section, and invites my partner and I on stage. As I sing, I sink into each low note and swim in it. I feel the expression slip onto my own face, and I wonder if the audience recognizes in me what I saw in the bassist.

    I step off stage and sit back down in front of the small computer screen. I'll only be in front of it for another fifteen minutes, and then it's back to work.