Every Bright and Broken Thing

Chapter Sixteen - Ezra

For ten days I struggle to paint while also trying to find a job. Neither venture is successful. And today's the day I officially lose my apartment for good.

I don't grab much. I pile the canvases and the paint supplies in the bed of my truck. Back and forth between my apartment and the curb where I'm parked, I carry all my possessions. Clothes, food, toiletries. I leave behind the furniture for Mr. Blake to deal with. I don't have room for it anyway.

When I drop the last box in the bed of my truck, I cover it with a tarp and secure it with rope. Without a word, I drop off my key at the front desk and climb into the driver's side of my truck. Turning the key, the engine roars to life and I peel out onto the busy street.

I have nowhere to go.

I've always loved city streets at night. But I never thought I'd see it like this; instead of watching the city from the safety of a comfortable, secure life, I'm a part of it in ways no one should ever have to be. What's worse is that there's nothing I can do about it. I've run the well of my mind dry, excavating my entire life for a way out of what this pit – my prison. But there's no way out. And the walls are closing in, crushing the last measure of life from my lungs.

After trading my truck (the first car I bought when I turned sixteen; the car that took me to college, that took me on my first date) for an old two-door Honda Civic, I put the money in my bank account to make sure it doesn't get stolen.

You can't trust anyone on the streets of Chicago.

Of all the things that I could miss about living under my own roof, I miss the fire escape most of all. Sitting out there and looking up at the sky, allowing my imagination to soar past the neon lights, deep into an ocean of stars. I found myself wishing, as the mural of the astronaut's helmet stared back at me, that I'd become an astronaut just so I could be up there, living and breathing with the stars. But every time I allowed my spirit to soar past the world's broken atmosphere, I fell back to earth so suddenly that a grief gripped me as if I had lost something dear – even though the stars were never mine to begin with. And back on earth, just like I am now, I longed to somehow find a way to capture that feeling on canvas. But the inspiration, the motivation, the ability eludes me. In my mind, it's so clear. But the moment the paintbrush touches the canvas, I lose all grip on the image in my spirit. Maybe one day I'll manage to pin it down beneath the weight of every stroke of the brush. Maybe one day I'll find myself out among the stars and discover once and for all that there is so much more out there for me to see. Light and wonder and endless discovery.

The voyage.

The word resonates with my spirit and takes on new meaning, new life of its own. Voyage. All of life is a voyage. New lands. New worlds. New dreams. I can almost taste it too, the flavor of a starlit ocean as I glide further and further toward what could be new.

Then, with the piercing howl of sirens against the backdrop of night, I'm brought back to earth. I'm stranded. If only I had a space ship. I would fly far away from this place.

The windows of the old civic fog. I can barely see through them. Reclined in the passenger seat, my legs propped up on the dash, I stare out the windshield. Through the fog, the city lights look like neon stars hanging in a pale sky. Eyes closed, I imagine again that I'm an astronaut, sailing across an ocean of stars, high above this world and far away from the bitterness of life. But all the while, gravity, like invisible hands, pulls me back to earth. Back to reality.

Sitting in my car at midnight, I fight the autumn cold with nothing but the clothes on my back and a tattered, white sheet. This is one of those moments in life that compels you to wonder how you got here.