Peas

Tonight, I rattle around this apartment like one of the last two peas in a can. I don’t feel much like a pea in a pod these days. I feel like I’m wearing flesh-colored underpants.
I trace the lines in the creaky floorboards, and I scan the bookshelves, for something to inspire me. Too many good things happened at once. I used up all my tickets, and now I’m left to watch while others ride the carousel.
My body needs to move and my mind to rest, after 27 years of the inverse. I dream, not of that feeling of exuberance between sobriety and intoxication but of the feeling of exuberance between exhaustion and exhilaration.
I want to sing out. And I want to be free.
My feet are cold. Not in the proverbial way.
I don’t want to read poetry or fiction. I only want to read memoirs, as validation that dreams come true, that people conquer their addictions and that we never stop evolving.
I rattle around this apartment, that one pea left in the can.
The doors are open, and someone is home. I pull my jacket closer around me, tuck my feet under my body, and try to calm my mind. I need stillness to sleep, but all I want is to move.
I dream of this weekend, strapping my bike to my car and taking a ride. A long one. Feeling it in my legs and allowing my lungs to breathe fresh air. I want aching quads, an endless stretch of road and great music on my ipod.

I want to clear the dust, get rid of the cobwebs and wipe away the fog.
I need a new challenge, a new project.
Fitness, I think, it shall be.