"Midnight" Part 2

Everyone has a breaking point.

I never did like that phrase. It conjures up an illusion that we're acting, wearing ill-fitted masks and employing facades we never reveal until it's absolutely unintentional. Does that make sense? A breaking point—an unintentional breaking point.

If you say it slow enough, it seems to make sense. 

Maybe.

The rain isn't letting up, and I'm far from getting dry. The next store is a good two blocks away, and I'm miserable.

46th street, I mutter, never close enough.

I hate chocolate. No, I actually like chocolate, I just hate the memories. Actually, I love the memories. I just hate that they are, in fact, only memories. So why am I stumbling through this rain shower at 2 a.m. trying to find a store with chocolate that ignites memories I hate to replay?

Good question. Breaking point.

And my breaking point was her, and she loved chocolate.

And this rain is making me cold, reminding me of her.

A black cat skittered across the street, losing its hind legs in a stream by the curb and then its body in a trashcan. That seems to happen more often—black cats crossing my path. I've never been the superstitious type, but with all my bad luck lately, I may join the club. But it wasn't bad luck I was having; it was just me. That's what hurts the most: knowing that you are the bad luck. You are, in fact, her black cat. And like Trash-Can-Kitty, you're soaked and stumbling through the filthiest, lowest point of your life.

And you're alone.

47th street , I read as I pass beneath the sign and glance for cars. I think the store 

is on 48th, but in this weather, I'm not so sure.

I really don't know what happened. I never saw the array of dominoes that fell against me, finally knocking me through my own breaking point. I've always considered myself strong. I guess that was my greatest weakness and ultimate downfall.

It's like tumbling into the ring with a Ninja, believing yourself to be a natural master of Kung-Fu, when you are, in fact, just a 135 pound weakling containing no experience with round-house kicks whatsoever except for the one that's soon-to-be introducing itself to your well-manicured face.

What's our measurement of "strong" anyway?

And what does "strong" describe, emotionally speaking, except that we conceal our feelings better than others? I've always heard it said that bottling emotion is a bad habit that soon leads to explosive situations.

Then again, 'A fool vents all his feelings, but a wise man holds them back.' That's a proverb, I think.

The lonely traffic light blinks incessantly red as I pass underneath. 

I love colors in the rain. They're saturated and much more vibrant than on ordinary days. They're rich with life, even lonely traffic lights. Perhaps that's another reason why I love rain so much. Perhaps I have the potential to be vibrant and colorful in the rain instead of ordinary. Perhaps that's why I'm walking in the rain. I guess I just need to find some color first. 

And when I do, I guess I just need to light up and flash a bit.

48th street, I sigh. There isn't a gas station or an open store. There isn't even a closed store. I turn a few circles, as if it would help, but it doesn't. There's still no store.

How inconvenient.

I slowly make my way back from where I came. Back home. Home is a studio apartment in a seven-story building on 23rd street. 

Twenty-five blocks, I scold myself. My feet begin to ache. I could keep walking in hopes of finding another store, but twenty-five blocks is my breaking point for tonight. 

The rain is letting up a little. Small rivers begin to rush against the curb toward thirsty storm drains. A few pieces of trash float along like lost ships at sea, carried wherever the current desires.

It reminds me of being a kid. I remember folding paper ships and sending them to their doom at the hands of curbside waterways. Then again, I didn't think like that as a child. It was terribly fun to chase the boats as they bobbed and twisted in the murky-brown water. Eventually, they would either sink or disappear into the gaping mouth of a storm drain, lost to whatever monsters lurk beneath our feet. I lived in a smaller town then. It was nothing like the big city.

I feel like that now. A boat tossed in the rain, rushing out of control toward a deep, dark hole in the ground along with all the other trash.

And for all I know, this ship has already slipped over the edge