The pennies were set aside in their own area while she counts off the silvers. Not very many, but hopefully enough for just one pack. One more pack until she gets paid. She thought of her friends all in the military and living off free room and board. She hates the military. It's hard for to think that she could follow orders that she don't very much agree with, or even having to wake up early in the morning just to exercise. Jamie's the kind that liked to be left alone to her own self.
Instead of staying in town to marry some stupid guy named Joe, she moved out to this city. She want to write poems instead of raising babies. She wants to experience life before she turned thirty. Now, she's twenty-five and had given up on this silly idea of finding the right guy to get married to. But that's besides the point.
The point is: she want freedom. The freedom of being on her own. The freedom to run outside and taste the air without worrying about the dinner guest some guy wants to entertain. The life with no kids to yell at when they do something stupid or just plain ignore her. It must've been one big imagination. The imagination of being this writer working at home at all hours of the day on some stupid poem that don't make sense at all. That's all it seems to be lately. Non sensical poetry. The kinds that starts from nowhere then leading to nowhere.
Sadness sinks in at night these days too. Lonely evenings of staring up at the stars through the window while she just lay there with Beethoven playing through the radio. It's nothing new. It's something else each night as a matter of fact. The constellations change positions each hour. How could she be that damned bored? Sadness builds character. Anything that going to happen without killing builds character. Nonsense was all that it is.
Now she's counting change on her bed of this cheap studio that she often neglect to pay until late each month. Let the landlord have her money. Nothing matters anymore. It's just this constant construction of starting each day with a hope. Then spending her time taking orders at the print shop until coming home ruined of everything. It's nothing new and she believe in Bob Marley sating that "everything is gonna be all right." She sang it to herself each morning and more sorrowfully at bedtime before she finds out that sheep runs out really fast and she's still awake. No use to use her fingers to count them. She runs out by the time she reach fifty and then deciding that counting aloud is really like being in a loony bin.
So this was the sadness that they often warned her about. Her companion is usually the sounds of the cars, trucks, and sirens going on outside. The sounds creeping inside to fill up her ears.
Two dollars and fifty cents. It's cheap enough for that gas station down the street.
