“Have you ever watched the moon rise over the Wasteland? I wish I could have given you something as wonderful as that.”- Uncle Leo- FALLOUT 3
I stand, sometimes, on the corners of the city streets at 3 A.M. Sometimes in anger. Sometimes in disgust. Sometimes in hope that someone, somewhere, will take heed and question the origins of my situation. The situation being, a kid standing with his hands in his pockets on the street corner at 3 A.M.
There’s an aura that only that hour, that situation can provide. To describe it is to describe 18 years of abuse, 15 years of unobtainable freedom, and 6 hours of blistering cold. Beginning at sundown, I feel my body unable to still. So I toss, and I turn, hoping that the dreams I’m about to have will provide a glimmer of sustainability, that will keep my head on the pillow, and my face under the sheets. But the skyscrapers say otherwise.
When I stare at them, from some far away suburban corner, dorm-room window, airplane seat, I yearn to be at the base of her being. I want to be a part of the melted skyline at dawn. The red in her fathomless molten daze. And when I’m there, I look off into the distance and think the same.
Yes, there is no moment of peace. No moment of full surrender. It grips and moves me to move towards the tunnels and dimly orange street lights, however heavy the trek may be. The once warning to go home is now the holy invitation to leave. It’s a myth that these beacons of evening time provide the setting for malice practices. Those out during the after hours, blowing smoke innocently into the cutting air, are just…just.
I, myself, am waiting to meet the gaze of an unfortunate passerby that will serve as the vessel that holds the answer to my question. That there is an answer is wholly unknown. But my options for a moment of respite lie in the words and eyes of a stranger. During the midnight hours, the flood of memories lingers by, menacingly, so that the anger is not gone altogether, but lingers also.
Yes, there I stand, with hands in pockets at 3 A.M. Under the arched bridges, with the drunks and lost addicts, apart yet near them. We wait for the shining moment in the dark, where our concerns can be solaced and our ransoms met. When our demands for life can be wrapped up in a tidy package under a street light on South Street. When someone, somewhere, can pass by and we can ask and they can answer, “Do you know who I am?”