Almost 23

Groggy, hungover, his eyes open.

Nothing happens.

His bed is empty, as is his mind. The previous night's festivities meld into one blurry encounter not easily recalled. Outside is disorder and refracting light; inside there is no light, but otherwise the equation balances.

He has no goals, no direction, just a desire for movement and salubrity. Food, water, cleanliness--they will return him to cogency, normalcy. False words without meaning, like proper grammar, syntax, diction.

He alternates between worlds, a butterfly floating lightly after years in a cocoon. He knows who he is, but cannot see what he is, or what he is to become. It's disarming, relaxing, enraging, stressful, aging, and countless other adjectives. (So post-modern.)

No new line emerges, so he accepts himself, unsure, and leaves labor and love for later. He's off to play in the sand and watch waves wash away castles and dreams.

He's almost twenty-three.