F. Jason Whitaker Writer

Snow gathers at dawn, covering everything like a blanket, changing the landscape from green to white. The change of seasons like the change of the guard, marking the passing of time, marking the way things keep going forward. Outside, in the cold of life, I watch the flakes drift down. Wind blows, an enchanting song, through bare limbs of trees dancing. Empty streets greet me. A voyage began in snow.  Evidence of the past, minutes or hours journeyed, found in the places I did tread through snow and ice. The future bare and full of promise.  Walking, following a path so few find, my thoughts linger upon the mysteries of the unknown.

Sun through window wakes me. Flesh is hard. Dreams are fading. Clock by my bed tells me I should be on my way but the bed is so inviting. To remain here all day would be wonderful, but the world outside calls me forward. Shower. Water awakening. Still need coffee but this is a start. Beakfast. Simple. Yogurt. Coffee. Nothing more. Out the door. Have I forgotten something? No, so I go to my car. I drive to the city. Los Angeles. Such a city. So much more than any other. I work through the hours. Counting the seconds. Mind full of plans for lunch. A meeting. Not a date. Could be a date. He's meeting me at the restaurant. Restaurant. Nothing fancy. Not fast food but it's not expensive. He is there waiting. A meeting as friends turns into a date. He laughs at my jokes even when they are not so funny. We share stories of childhood. Stories of work. We share our goals and dreams. Today started like any other but now it is unlike any other. Tonight I won't go to bed alone. And whe...

The light is low, sun going down, time to dream, in my room I am alone. End of day, night is here.  Today I sat and counted the hours. Counted the time spent dreaming. I dream often, always have, always will. Sometimes I dream the same dreams. Sometimes I dream new dreams. I write about my dreams. My writing is a dream fulfilled.

The bus moves down a highway, night surrounds us, as I look out into the passing landscape. Even at night I have a glimpse into places unknown. A boy sitting at a desk, a scene seen through open window, gives me a story to invent. He is doing his homework. He's in high school. He dreams of traveling, as I am traveling, to places he's not been. The bus moves down the road. The window only a brief moment in the journey. I sleep until Chicago. Dreams with the setting of the bus. Nothing unusual. Dreams about riding the bus. The dreams merge with waking moments so that I am unaware of the difference between the two. A large room is where I wait, crowds going various directions, chairs full of travelers, a clock on a wall I use to gauge the passing of time, and I wait for my bus in silence. Thoughts passing through my mind like the passing scenery on the bus. Each thought remains for a second before the next one arrives. I consider so much yet conclusions are so few. I dream with my...

Outside a bus rolls down the road, flocks of birds gather in the vacant parking lot, while inside I watch the line cook dance in the kitchen to the sound of the crackling jukebox. I'm sitting in a booth wondering why I chose here to depart the bus. I could have gone further on to where the sun goes down over Santa Monica but, instead, I'm here in the middle of nowhere waiting for nothing to happen again. Nothing is all I have and nothing is all that I have to look forward to. Rain comes down, dark sky all around this tiny diner, thunder shakes the silverware as the night nears and the day begins its exit.  I'm alone, only my thoughts to occupy my time, my food eaten, I watch the last of the storm not sure how many days I'll remain in this place. 

Stairs and more stairs lead me upward. I could have taken the elevator but I really could use the exercise. Not that I am overweight. I just need to stay in shape. A meeting. No, a date. Is it a date? A blind date. Not that the word date came up in conversation but it was through text. Not direct, but a friend we share brought us together. Our friend, who shall remain nameless, sent us both a text about the other. Not that we have not crossed paths but only in small talk. His name, what was his name? So, the word date was not mentioned but it was implied, I think. I mean why else would you arrange a meeting of two gay men. I think he's gay. I am. Does that really mean it's  a date? I would hate to assume, presume, something like that only to find out otherwise. The restaurant is on the top floor. How fancy. Can I afford fancy? Maybe, just this once. I begin to wonder if I should have skipped the exercise and taken the elevator. I open the last door. The restaurant is in sight. ...