the music helps the words
He doesn’t know what day it is, and then is a little saddened by the realization that it doesn’t really matter anyway. He worked twelve hours on the overnight shift last night, and he’ll work twelve more tonight. The pay is alright, and he knows that he should feel lucky to have a job at all, but all he really feels is a little more dead each day he punches that time clock.
There’s a fog over this late summer morning, and he can almost feel fall in the air. He bikes home because it keeps him hungry, and he knows it’s the only exercise he’ll get. His town is dead this early on a Saturday, and somehow that seems fitting. While the good people of the world are fast asleep, he bikes hard because he doesn’t know what else to do with himself.
He gets home and suddenly can’t stand the smell of the factory on his clothes. He takes them off right there in the hallway, doesn’t even worry about it, there’s no one there to care anyway. He’ll walk around in his boxers; let his feet shuffle along the scuffed wood floor.
Cook some eggs and look out over the city. Drink a Budweiser from the bottle at seven am, because somewhere along the line he got it in his head that blue collar Irish kids drink Budweiser from the bottle. His seven in the morning is your seven at night, and he wouldn’t care what you thought about drinking beer in the morning anyway. He knows that he drinks too much. He also works too much, and dreams too much. Somehow it’ll all balance out; in this he has faith.
And once again it strikes him just how very alone he can be in a city that he adores. He wonders what she’s up to. Or the one before her. Or that other one he shared a smile with out west. He wonders how it is that he can meet all these amazing girls, but he can never figure out how to make them last.
He wonders if maybe he should go back to school, or go to Los Angeles or New Zealand, or just go away. Wonders if anyone would care, if anyone would notice. Wonders why he’s always on the move anyway, wonders just what it is that he’s looking for, or running from.
This apartment is not a home. He lives here, but it means nothing to him. The Irish flag above his bed is the only decoration, something he’s had since before he can remember, and he doesn’t know how to change now. He stretches, and his muscles pop and his joints creak. He wonders how he got to be such an old man at such an early age. He knows this factory life is killing him. He looks out over the fog and wonders if everyone thinks like this, or if maybe he’s just blessed this way. Some blessing.
He’ll take some drugs to help him sleep and he’ll type this little piece, wondering just when it was that his life became a Gaslight Anthem song.