Photo by Alexandre Godreau on Unsplash

I’ve been wandering through Sherbrooke cafés all day. Wondering where my mind has gone. Maybe I should ask the Pixies. I’ve stayed one or two hours tops in each one of those familiar places. It feels like I can’t stay in place. Thoughts of you and tiny knives of pain keep catching up with me. They keep cutting through the soft flesh of my present moments. I gotta move. I’m not sure where I’m headed, but I know I’m on my way. And this time, I’m bringing my heart and my hope for the ride. I’ve left them behind too many times, and they don’t belong to yesterdays. Now that you’ve given up on them, they belong right here with me. They’re all I’ve ever had, and I’m starting to realize they’re all I’ll ever need.

I went out with some friends yesterday. As they got drunker and more stupid, I felt like I was out of place, literally. I think I was too much inside of myself to be enjoying the act of going out. I didn’t want nor liked any of what was surrounding me. The alcohol-induced overconfidence of too many guys. The tight black dresses and the makeup. The bad songs. The glasses filled with beer. The ugly shooter girls. I didn’t want any of this. On this cold night, all I wanted was a familiar flame, shivering in the winds of time and doubt.

But you can’t always get what you want. Ask the Rolling Stones. Sometimes all you get is what you need. Your heart and your hope. And I knew that at least I still had those two things. So I held on to them real tight. I put on my coat and I got the fuck out of that bar. I went to this old diner I used to go at night. I ordered some food and read a little. The drunken old guy beside me fell asleep, face first in his poutine. Caught between laughter and pity, I woke him up gently. He had gravy all over his wrinkled face. A sight to behold. You would’ve helped him too I’m sure. You would’ve laughed, like many did, but you would’ve helped.

I can’t be mad at you. I can’t be mad that you chose to let me go. I didn’t want to become your beast of burden. I’m just glad that, flying on the wings of our love, I had the chance to prove I could be a good man. A better man than I once was. But still a lesser man than what I’ll one day be.

An hour ago, I went to see a friend at a pub she works at. We shared our pains, our thoughts and a cigar. It felt good to have a meaningful conversation with another human being. It felt good to fight off the blues with words. I think that’s precisely what I’m doing right now, alone in yet another Sherbrooke café. Well, not exactly alone. I’ve got some sweet rock’n’roll in my ears, a bunch of white pages, a pen filled with ink. And a heart filled with hope. I’ve got all I need.