I am driving my car down a desolate road on a secluded island, torrential rain plummeting down hard onto the pavement like thunderous applause, as if to celebrate my willing exploration of cognizance, new found acceptance. The warm ground breathes gently as the cold rain creates a haze across earth. I am alive and fully aware, though my palms are perspiring they still grasp the wheel firmly, with determination. I have a difficult time driving in the dark, in the rain. It is late and I am tired. I need to rest. I don't plan on sleeping, however. Sleep is a stranger to me lately.

I see a lonely hotel situated alongside the road, the vacancy sign is lit up, the 'V' and the first 'A' burned out, left reading 'cancy'. Can see. Ironic, its like the world is on my side even upon the face of random hotel signs. I put on the blinker and turn off to the left, as I smile and lower the stereo volume, one song in particular I've been playing on repeat and singing at the top of my lungs. Therapy comes in many forms other than pills or alcohol, although a glass of wine sounds fabulous - and how lovely that there is a bottle in the back that I'll be enjoying once I'm checked in.

I quickly grab my things out of the backseat and tear through the rain to the hotel office. "Well, you're the only one around tonight, miss!" the desk clerk points out. He is of course male, which intimidates me, being that I'm alone in an empty hotel. No matter. I pay him for a room, making as little eye contact as possible, put the key on my keychain and walk a few doors down.

The key isn't fitting into the lock. Great! Wouldn't this be my freaking luck! I jiggle it a few more times, take it out, put it back in (that's what she said.....). OH. oops. I'm using the wrong key (typical of me). I find the correct one, open the door, go inside, drop my bags at my feet. The room is a blast from 1983, like my first memories of home. Its clean but smells of strawberry air freshener and stale cigarettes. I have a pack in my purse and I am planning on smoking them tonight and adding to the scent in here.

All I wanna do tonight is write. "Measuring Success." That is what I want to write about.

I get out my pen and notebook, lay stomach first on the lower edge of the bed and start to write.
"What does being successful mean?". I scribble it out, then remember I want to have some wine and a cigarette first. I actually get butterflies thinking about it.

Back to the pile of bags by the door, I rummage through and find my half-full bottle of wine, then get the fresh pack of Camels out of my purse. Red wine. mmmm. The first sip always makes my tongue tingle. I lean back against the headboard and light up my cigarette, alternating sips of wine and drags of this cancerous wand. "Measuring success." I grow contemplative, I tighten my brow in concentration. At the first thought of success, career comes to mind. It used to be that I envisioned 'being successful' as having a great reputation and a healthy, profitable career. Now, not so much.

Success. Success, success, success. What the fuck!! Why can't I concentrate on this and stop thinking about him for more than a few minutes. I miss him. *drag, then flick of cigarette*

Okay. Being successful. It has nothing to do with money, everything to do with following through. Retaining good things and good people based on honest acts. Not feeling lonely, having stability, allowing ourselves to be filled and to feel 'full'. How does one measure success? I have met and worked with individuals who have earned themselves incredible status, yet they maintain secret (and multiple) affairs behind their spouse's back. Their interpretable 'success' then, in my opinion, would be in vain. Is that a judgment call? Probably. So success shouldn't necessarily have anything to do with reputation, I digress..... *drag of cigarette*

Accomplishment does not equal bank account nor number of friends nor anything physically measurable or countable or discernible. Success is sincerity. Staying true, grounded, positive, appreciative, persistent. *drag of cigarette* If people can count on you, and you can also count on yourself - this is mega success! I really don't feel like writing about this now, or thinking about it. I grab my pen, there is something else to be written. *sip of wine*

"This island is dark and quiet.
The rain is still falling.
I was driving back to the shore that you have left me here to wade upon.
You were with me, now you are gone.
We sailed to this place together
The sun lit our eyes
Our hearts cast out a wind to keep us moving
These sails had a purpose
To find the shore
New earth to explore
My feet hit the sand and I took of running
But you
You stayed on board
Now I sit watching you drift away"

*drag and flick of cigarette, sip of wine*

Success. I'm successfully not making my tears visible to you. I'm successfully focused on other things. I'm successfully able to enjoy you as you are and continue on as myself. I want off this island, but I'll sit here in this empty hotel room lit up by tungsten yellow, I'll drive around aimlessly in the rain until the answers show themselves. I will stand my ground and continue to be strong for the right reasons. Not entirely for you. You are not everything, but you remain a part of all my everythings, whether you are here or there.

© July 2009