there's got to be so much better than in the middle

there isn't much i want to say that would make sense now. at best it will alienate the few who i haven't already, at worst it would make those who i already have hate me even more. hence, fiction, just by ways getting some randomness out of my system. an invitation to read between the lines is extended, despite the lack of necessity for me to actually do so.

As the sun came up, John tried to remember what he had forgotten to pack. It was a rather foolish endeavor, sort of like trying to remember where you had left your keys while checking behind or under anything in your room that's not nailed now. While he pretended to look around the room, brows furrowed as if deep in thought, the sky went from blue to orange. He decided to give up, choosing instead to spend the time bracing himself for that inevitable moment, perhaps on the cab, when he would actually realize what he had left behind.

He hoped it would be something insignificant, like the charger for his cellphone or that bottle of melatonin he carries around as a placebo. He could probably deal with not having that book he'd gotten for his birthday and was saving for a long enough trip. Perhaps the cough drops he bought to deal with the dry air on board the plane. But he knew it wouldn't be any of these things, since he clearly remembered exactly where they were distributed, between the zippered compartments of his small blue duffel and the pouches of his red messenger bag.

He also knew it wouldn't be his passport, his keys (both for where he was and where he was going), any of the many gadgets that he needed to keep himself distracted, nor the pen and notepad he needed to keep himself focused.

As his room became increasingly bright, it also become increasingly empty; no shadows came to replace the departing darkness. The feeling was fresh, but also intimidating. A series of songs came to his head, each more appropriate than the one before, that might apply to the situation. Despite the brevity of the trip relative to the distance he was about to travel, he felt an intense finality, and realized he had let his mind wander from the more manageable question of his malfunctioning memory.

As he picked up his stuff to leave, he took out the pen from his coat pocket, and attempted to leave it on the table unconsciously. He only got as far as the door when he realized that the gesture was empty: the crisis he had designed was easily averted by the spare pen he kept in the coils of his spiral bound notepad. He panicked. The cab driver, seeing him coming out the door, sounded his horn.