I'm twenty-five now.

When I was seventeen I bluffed my way past bouncers with shaky hands. In my wallet was a laminated ghost flown in from Shenyang in a box of socks. Masquerading as an unconvincing 1997 Libra from New Jersey, I would trade my drink ticket for an orange screwdriver that was more screwed than orange. The music was always good, the drinks cheap. I flitted from Faust to Soap to Cakeshop and everything in-between until the bass became too loud, the lights too bright, and inevitably I hurled the contents of my stomach into a storm drain.

Money was simpler back then: no rent, no responsibilities. I burned through cash as fast as I made it, and I burned bright. Untouchable, invincible, a shooting star crash-landing in spectacular fashion. Every morning, waking up to do it all over again. Every morning, thinking to myself, I’ll die before I’m thirty. I’m going to make the most of it. 

Now I’m on a train to Kyoto. I’m struggling to get comfortable in my seat that’s too plush for long rides while Osaka disappears behind me. Goodbye Dotonbori, you tourist hellhole. May we never meet again. 

The carriage is silent and the world feels still even as it passes by at speed. I find myself again caught between the past and future. Osaka and Kyoto. Seventeen and thirty. The past few years have come and gone, and still I am neither where I once was nor where I will be. For now I ride to the end of the line.

I don't know it yet, but a menthol Seven Star and the best coffee I've ever had wait for me in the pouring rain.