I look to the clouds while I’m out for a little exercise, a little jog for some fresh air under the mountain drizzle. Two planes fly overhead as the mountains are hidden by a strong, gray mist. The coquis’ sing loudly and the waterfall roars as it descends into the creek shadowed by the trees.
I breakdown as I pace back and forth on the grass. I call out to him; I even get on my knees on the asphalt. I can’t hear God’s voice or my father’s. The colors of the sky change ever so quickly as I open my eyes after a moment of breath to try and center myself. Darkness will soon engulf this place as my despair continues.
I begin heading up the hill as I pass mirrors of muddy waters that stare at the sky. I hear Bukowski’s voice attempting to be sympathetic towards me. He says: “Write boy. I don’t know much about what you’re going through, I’m a drunk, but you’re a writer boy, so write.”
And so, I write.