30 May 2014

Getting Late

I feel like there is a point in every gathering, usually toward the end when my reservoir is running low, when I begin to feel sort of detached and floating. Has nothing to do with drinking; I drink very little. I just sort of enter a contented fog. I'm not inclined to leave because I'm feeling too lazy, but I know when this feeling steals over me that it will soon be time to go. That even if I don't make the first move to leave, the party will soon unravel of its own accord anyway. And I don't like being the last one to linger. I don't like getting my second wind while still there only to be sorry when everyone else decides to go.

It's strange in this fog state, the way I feel separate from everyone. The lack of energy that prevents me from leaving also prevents me from working to form any connections with others. I just want to sit and watch and listen. I no longer want to be part of things but I don't want to entirely leave them, either. I am a balloon, bouncing along a ceiling, above it all but not escaping. And the ribbon of my tail is out of reach.

Still, at some point the door opens and people begin to exit and the breeze of their passing pushes me out the door with them. I am set free.

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