I fell almost completely asleep in a bar the August after I turned 20. Mentally, I checked out; physically, my eyes were open and staring at the window looking outside. I kept running my fingers through the liquid on the table that was following itself in a perfect circle from the condensation on the water glass. I remember feeling strange, although being put into a group of adults was nothing new to me. I don't remember much more than a few random splashes of vision. I was cold. I was sitting at a table with one side pressed against the wall under the window pane. At some point during that trip to Richmond, I sat in the booth of a diner with my back to the door and my friend said "are you okay? Do you want to trade places?" I can't remember if it was before or after the bar scene, but I started to see a pattern. Periodically my gaze shifted to another friend who was fairly hungover already, turning down the opportunity to drink again. I remember feeling strange. I remain quiet in bar conversation because social conversation requires you to think, and I'm not good on my feet. There's a possibility that's why I feel the most out of place in these situations. The lack of a cigarette or bottle of cider in my hand renders me speechless; so I just sit and I listen. Sitting in that hole in the wall outside of Richmond, I heard arguments start over useless things, as well as whispers at my own table about goings on amongst family members. Typically that's how all of my outings go, I become a sponge. I listen. I absorb. I continue to mess with the condensation of my water glass. I felt like I should contribute something. Like a cold glass sweats in humidity, saying "hey, I'm still here, hanging out, waiting for you to need me," I offered quiet words and the odd laugh here and there, but remained stationary. I had hastily forgotten this memory until I could feel the condensation of my water cup sitting in my room, and heard the words of a young British poet talk about an empty pint glass on a bar ledge. She speaks with her tongue against the back of her teeth every time she says a word with the letter D and a fluidity that even water would die for. Most of my thoughts are in her voice nowadays, I suppose it makes them feel more poetic. Then I wonder if that's where the headaches have come from this week. These remarks continue to bounce back and forth between an English performer who speaks to crowds of people with gold rings on her hands and the warmest intent in her movements and a pop punk singer who writes of the color green and sea cliffs, who could talk to me all day about whatever he wanted and I'd listen intently, whether or not I had something better to do. The gear doesn't switch into my voice. On the rare occasion it does, I'm left feeling like I created unsatisfactory work. My prospects reflect those of 16 year old Chey, who is writing copies for the yearbook. Write in past tense. Check everyone else's grammar. Keep it short, sweet, matter-of-fact, and don't use too many commas. When I have a phrase I think is good, I think of the first time I actively wrote an open line to a piece I was proud of. My crotchety English 2 teacher read it to herself then announced to me, but over the entire class, "you think that's good enough? That's like asking a man if he's stopped beating his wife yet! Re-write it, and don't make it a question." Everyday she would fall asleep at the beginning of class or in the middle of teaching, so why should it matter what she says? She was teaching to a curriculum sufficient enough for an end of semester test that she was exhausted by. I digress. So frequently I write about what I observe, but it doesn't seem adequate. Where is the fun of taking things, people, or places at face value? And there's only so far the cold side of my bed can take my imagination. And you can only re-live things a certain amount of times before your recollection of them seems like a broken record. And when it's all said and done and you're left with those memories while you're sitting at a bar big enough for ten people and a glass of water you're scared to drink anyways, when do you say "enough is enough," and walk out on an unfamiliar street to find what it is you need? I haven't reached that point yet. My seclusion is only enough to maintain some essence of sanity. My paints and pencils remain scattered all over my floor, begging to be picked up again, like my glasses of water. My head aches from the thoughts I can't articulate and the ponytail I threw my hair in because today I decided to say "fuck it, it's too much to deal with right now anyways." And these inklings still remain in a fictional way. I could day dream until the day is over, and keep day dreaming while staring at the moon. These day dreams take me to a place I can't seem to find in the strides I take, no matter what direction they're in. I can close my eyes with my fingers at my computer keys and see the smoke and neon lights, and feel the breeze of people pushing past me, sitting at a table I shouldn't be. So I write it down for a time I won't remember it, like these past two years have failed me. The themes in my head go no further than green eyes, love, time, and paved roads on January nights. I can take what I've experienced and turn it into something I have yet to. I've been writing about why I write and who I write to; my past fascinations with a love I've never felt coming back from being buried by the reality of two people interacting. That's all I've got, so I'll hold onto my glass a little tighter, until it becomes someone's hand. Until street signs become the backs of car seats. Until silence is enough for a story. Until someone cares enough to ask why I sit so quietly in a sea of people after it's all said and done, then offer me a glass of water even though on the bedside table, you'll already find one.