Glowing from the gym sweats while probably dying inside


The need to keep driving past my street, out of my city and out of my life hung in my

Most nights, I drive to the gym late. It’s a 24-hour gym, ghetto as all hell, but there are less gawking types after 8pm. Yep, 8pm is considered late in my city.

Tonight I went at 8.30pm. Way to outwit my routine, I know. I had spent eight hours at work, two hours volunteering and an hour on the phone to someone who might as well have been asleep. I needed time to myself. I felt like feeling alive without having to answer to others.

After making ape-like breathing faces by four walls of floor to ceiling mirrors, beads of sweat absolutely savaging one of the most tasteful sports shirts I own, I shuffled into my car. The familiar odyssey of gym, night reveries and home begins.

Every night when I leave the gym, I feel formidable. It’s a three-minute thing. A soft yet aggressive sensation, as if I could charge off into the night but also float off course on a rogue wind. The few minutes driving home are never enough. I want to keep going.

Tonight, the need to keep driving past my street, out of my city and out of my life hung in my chest. But home I went. I parked my car, and just sat there.

The outlines of the trees sloped over me, black leaves peppering the salmon clouds in the night sky. A possum could tear through my open window, unleashing its infant to shred my hopeful face.

It would feel like defeat to admit that I’m not happy, but in my still car, could I say it?

The past two years felt good. Not exactly peak season, but good. These days, I feel tied to a love so far away, in heart and by country. And I ache to feel scared on a daily basis at work, and I don’t, so I work myself up into thinking I’m not challenging myself enough. Tied into this poop pile is this feeling of being tethered to a city I feel I’ve outgrown, even though it feels like I’m betraying this easy utopia of a place just by saying that.

This fills me with dread because I feel like it might get worse and I won’t be able to stop it. At least for a while.

Maybe I don’t want to stop. Maybe this constant uneasiness will compel me to take a leap, the kind of fuck-it-do-it move 20-year-old me lived for. But for now, I’m still sitting in my car.

The light comes on out the front of my house, and my housemate emerges with a hearty bundle of rubbish. I had forgotten, tonight’s my night to take out the bins.

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