text: How long has it been since I've slept? 3 hours? Feels more like 3 weeks. I'm quite certain I’ve escaped humanity - this cornflower blue sky is my mind’s new landscape, in this universe I don’t ever need to sleep again. Was that a stop sign? My body buzzed as I floated, weightless and euphoric, past the road signs, and I watched them glimmer from the beams of my headlights. A rumbling startled me back to the ground like falling out of a shallow slumber. The adrenaline in my chest turned to a quick, sharp rage as I watched the fuel gauge fall and my beat-up 1970 blue and white Ford Ranger sputter to a stop, just in time for me to pull over at the nearest gas station. I faintly remember checking the gas before leaving the house, but I was also pretty much on autopilot at that point. Earlier this evening, I had completed the routine I’d had for weeks now: I came home from work, drained and exhausted, feeling even more hopeless when I realized that even a movie night with my girlfriend could not stir up any joy in me. I remember fading halfway through, my eyes glazed over and my back aching from just being awake. The credit music and her slow footsteps creaking up the stairs were what eventually stirred me awake - *really* awake. And now here I was, 10 minutes from midnight, unsure of what I was even planning to do here. Ideas were jumping around in my head but I couldn’t grasp any of them. I reached in my pocket. I hadn’t taken anything except my phone, wallet, and keys, and the pills my doctor had prescribed. Maybe this would be the night I’d stop lying to Mira and take them - what was I so afraid of? To lose control? God knows I’m not enough of a man to control my emotions on my own. I noticed the man parked next to me, his salt and pepper hair that was just noticeable under the moonlight matched his grey fleece jacket. He was wrapping extra bungee cords around three bikes on the back of his car. Three? No, two. One was a tandem. The warm lights of the inside of the station and the buzzing of the air conditioner felt like a tight hug, and it calmed my jittery limbs just a little. This little box felt frozen in time. At the cashier’s table, a young man, no older than 17, glanced up at me from behind the lottery card display. He reminded me of myself at that age, when I had my first job at my uncle’s pharmacy. Across the store, three bikers leaned against the cold drinks section while a fourth gathered beers for the group of them. I walked briskly to the men’s room, and my body felt out of control again. I could feel the gang’s eyes zapping me like lasers, tiny little zaps all over. “What’s his deal?” I could hear them thinking. I was suddenly hyper aware of how my arms were hanging, and of each step I took. Screw it! I don’t care what they think. I don’t care what anyone here thinks about me. I had music playing in my mind, electricity running through my veins, and for a split second I forgot where I was entirely. Why did I come here again? Gas! I need gas, then my car will run smoothly and I can get back on the road... I placed my hand on the metal door handle to steady myself when I realized my fingers were shaking. I can’t get a grip on the handle. In vain, I try to catch my breath, but the restlessness is deep. I hear a click of a lock and the door behind me opens. A woman exits, holding the hand of her young son, who immediately runs off to the candy aisle. She’s wearing a nearly identical fleece sweater as the man outside. Her slicked back black hair bounces as she stops to grab a bottle of water, and the bikers, blatantly staring, whistle as she walks away. She doesn’t give them a second look, the cashier doesn’t look up from his magazine. The door chime rings and a swift breeze enters and leaves the building with her. That’s when I finally manage to stumble into the bathroom. My heart is racing, the eyes looking back at me in the mirror are wide and alert and, for the first time tonight, I recognize myself. I’ve seen this person before. In my pocket, my phone is vibrating nonstop. I text back. I’m ok. I try to quiet the thoughts while I open my bottle of pills and place one on my tongue. Back outside, my car is sitting in the parking lot. I’ve had it since I was a teenager. It’s a little damaged, like I said. A few scratches here and there, a dent in the passenger door, but as I ease into the worn leather, I can relax a bit more than before. A few moments pass. “What was I doing here again?” I think to myself as I pull the gear stick and drive home.