F. Jason Whitaker Writer

My eyes open to a dark room. Outside rain pounds against my windows. Where am I this time? Each day I wake up somewhere new, a new person, living a new life for just one day. I have been so many different people I do not recall the person I was first. This time I am alone in bed. How many times have I woken to an awkward moment? Let's just say that I have been woken in some interesting ways. I sit up in bed. An entire day to figure out who I am. Sometimes it's not enough time. Other times it's too much time. I'm naked. It's cold. I pull a large blanket around me. Should I remain in bed for the entire day?

Cold morning, warm bed, dreams fading from my head. Next to me he lays. I feel his body next to mine. A comfort found in not being alone. I move my fingers, beneath the sheets, to trace his form. He moves but does not wake. I want to hold him close to me but I do not want to end this moment so soon. I am excited yet I refrain. My body reveals the desire. My hands linger here and there as I remember last night. The birds outside sing a song nearby. A lawn is watered and a car drive down the street away from this house. I hear so much outside yet all I want is within these walls. We are not formal, no titles, just two bodies sharing the same orbit in a world so large. Shall we continue, or shall our pathes part?

Bells. Bells. Bells. Ringing. Clocks striking noon. Is it that time already? Standing before a mirror my fears are revealed in my eyes. Gun at my side. Ready to die if I must. Do I fear? No, I only regret not knowing love.  I came here in search of what? A glimpse at history? I came here thinking I could witness things I read in books. The device that brought me here changes the way I appear so that I do not stand out wherever I travel, but it did not help the fact that I am clumsy at times.  I did not mean to bump into him. He would have been the last person I would have imagined going anywhere near. But here I am with a gun belt ready to face one of the meanest gunslinger's of the wild west. Sure, I could just leave and travel to another time or place but they have him.

A tree lined street, early morning, post rain, is where we begin and where we shall end. New house. New town. New everything. I left everything behind.  The last bit of thunder wakes me from dreams too soon forgotten. I search my thoughts for reasons to remain in bed. Sitting up in bed I view my new room, in the morning light, for the first time since moving in last night.  Saturday morning. Monday I will begin a new school. Once I am dressed I walk outside. I see the trees that casted shadows against my bedroom wall last night. I smell the rain in the air. The smell of clean. It's cool, not cold. It's almost Summer, I'm wearing shorts, but I feel a cold breeze on my bare legs. I consider returning indoors. Eyes closed I imagine life starting again with the move. A new life in a new place. A voice reminds me of where I am, a hand upon my hand, and I open my eyes to see him standing before me. Neither of us speaks. He moves closer. His breath against my skin. No urge to move

In empty room I stand. Door closed the outside world is made silent. No furniture. Carpet. Window with shade down. This is my room. Hot day. I lay on the carpet in my boxers. Too hot to wear anything more. Time has no meaning. Days have no meaning.  Outside these walls are streets full of people and cars. A city full of life. Inside of these walls is just me. I am alone.

I stare at the clock hanging above the now abandoned diner counter of the Greyhound station I am waiting inside, ready to leave my past behind for an uncertain future, my mom at my side, and I wonder if I will ever be here again. We do not speak, no words could express these opposing feelings, what we feel when we feel so much about this day and what it means. I'm about to board a bus, to cross the country, to follow after my dreams so often dreamt I feel as though I have already lived them a thousand times. People pass us, they on their own journeys, as though we are not present. Are we ghosts in some memory? A memory of a time so long ago, now fading with each passing year, to one day be lost to time? My bus will be here shortly. I hug my mom once again. I would kiss her on the cheek but feel odd about such a gesture in such a public place. I want to remember this moment. I want to hold on to these minutes. A mental time travel I know so well from reliving the times gone. For a m

A chill in the air finds me in the morning, in bed, refusing to leave to safety of my dreams for the the uncertain of my waking world. Covered in blankets, naked beneath, rejoicing in the comfort of a warm bed, I remain until the alarm stirs me from a morning dream. Showered and dressed I leave my nightly dwelling, my refuge, for the waste lands of life. The crowds gather. Buses flowing. Trains going beneath many layers of urban soil and pavement. Inside I desire, outside I remain stoic, a companion. What is one but a solitary being in search of a soul mate. I am alone. Traveling through life, a voyage of a certain end, I seek out in hope but remain in the shadows of doubt. I push my way through the gathering masses. My spot on the bus gained with brute force, though I have no grudge nor do I have remorse, I hold firm to my spot waiting for my stop. I see so many people yet they are all strangers and forever shall remain so. They orbit me like so many moons, casting shadows and influen