How I Got Here Ain’t Exactly Clear

S

ometimes, stuff just gets too hard. Tiredness sets in. You wonder just what the hell you were thinking. Here’s what I haven’t said yet.

We are getting ready to return from our longest trip in years. We are returning from Abu Dhabi. I negotiated one show for musical miss. The promoters threw so much money and first class perks at us that I couldn’t say no.

So we went.

I wish we hadn’t.

Oh, we had great fun. The city is amazing. I got to drive a civilian tank designed to drive over sand dunes. No worries. It isn’t armed. That would be the last thing you want me driving. We were treated like gold. Or, oil.

But, terrible exhaustion set in.

I was listening to a Spotify playlist. Rodney Crowell’s “It Ain’t Over Yet” was playing. It’s about the end of his relationship with Roseanne Cash. She guests on it, so it really wasn’t over yet.

I looked at musical miss. Tears were streaming down her face. She wasn’t really crying, but tears fell. Then, I started too. Thinking about it later I realized something isn’t right. I can’t put my finger on it. I can’t speak for “we” but I can speak for “me.”

I think there is just too much. Of everything. Good, bad and indifferent. I don’t seem to understand how to control it, but I’m certain it isn’t good for anybody.

I don’t know the answer.

Maybe it lies in another song, “I have a need for solitude.”