Strange Days

Saturday, at 4:30 am, as I was crashing at Derelict's place, I woke up. Still drunk from our bender at Blues on Whyte to see master bluesman Russell Jackson, I smiled.

I was happy. And I laughed. And laughed. I felt this strange joy in my heart. I wept with tears of elation. And so this behavior continued in various durations and intensities. For one hour.

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The next night, in Calgary, I woke up at 2:30 am. And I could not sleep. For three hours.
Sure, it may have been too warm at night, but it was more than that. My mind could not rest. It was too full of ideas: silly ones, optimistically elaborate schemes. I was thinking of the next day. Of my hospital pharmacy orientation. Of girls. Of the future.

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In the morning, I felt alive, cheerful, chatty. I talked to a very cute girl for several minutes. She had great big receptive eyes. Disarmingly adorable, expressive mannerisms in her body language. And a peculiar way of raising the pitch at the end of some of her words. And she wasn't wearing any rings. Jackpot.

Late in the afternoon, I felt dead. I was feeling the effects of fatigue. I barely had the energy to walk back to my car to drive home in the hot, sweltering weather. And the horribly slow crawl of rush hour on under-construction Glenmore Drive could have ignited many incidents of road rage. I listened to Belle and Sebastian, the perfect soft, soothing music for the angry testosterone-driven roads we drive on today.

I feel like a different person.