Bleak

Bleak

February
I move to Frederick during a bleak time in my life. I don’t really have a good job to speak of, I have no other place to go really, and I’m about as broke as a broke musician can possibly be. I feel like an Elliot Smith song.
As I load my truck up with my stuff at my parents’ house, I notice how little I actually own. I notice how little of that was actually acquired by me. Most of what I’m bringing with me, my bed, my night table, my dresser, my T.V., my stereo, these are all gifts. I haven’t really lived at all, or at least if I have, I don’t have any souvenirs to prove it. I guess this isn’t such a bad thing. I’ve never been one to value material things.
I arrive at my new apartment with my dad behind me, and I’m immediately scared. I’m not scared of living on my own, per se. I mean, I have a roommate and everything. I just…I’m scared that this is as good as it will get. I really like this place. It’s the top floor of an old renovated row house on North Market St. It’s pretty big for what we’re paying for it, and it’s got a really cool feel about it. Still, something about it seems so…final. And finality terrifies me.
The whole time we’re moving things in, my dad says maybe five words to me outside of asking where to put things. He’s not exactly keen on me living on my own. I’m only 23, he says, and not ready to face life yet. He really wishes I’d spend maybe six more months at their house, and save up more money. I keep trying to tell him that that’s not really my style, and moving out is something I need to do, and that if I don’t do it now, I’m scared I never will. He’s convinced I’m running away from my mother and him, and in a sense he’s right. I’m running away from the stagnancy of the life I’m living right now, and living in their house happens to be a part of that, so yeah, I am running from them.
As I hug him goodbye and promise to call sometime next week, it starts to snow. Snow in downtown has always fascinated me. There’s something so surreal about it, like a Norman Rockwell painting. I start to feel a little better, like maybe if this is all there is, it’s enough for me. I’ll be ok. I think. I walk back into my new apartment, turn on some Dylan, and watch the snow fall on Market from my window. I roll a joint, and as I light it, Shelter From the Storm comes on. Maybe this is right where I’m supposed to be right now, I think. Maybe.

“Well I’m living in a foreign country but I’m bound to cross
The line.
Beauty walks a razor’s edge, someday I’ll make her mine.
If I could turn back the clock to when God and her were born,
‘Come in’, she says, ‘I’ll give you shelter from the storm’”

Yeah, I think I’ll be ok.