The wind blows my hair back as it goes swirling incessantly through the city like a paper boat caught in a whirlpool.
I seem to have an unhealthy relationship with this place. It consistently causes me grief. Taxes are high, living expenses are high, jobs are hard to come by, and the weather is absolutely maddening, if not frightening at times. Though it seems I need it. As if there’s nowhere else I belong and even if I were to live somewhere else, it would only feel like a prolonged visit as I would eventually find my way back.
The skyscrapers are intimidating. The people swarm and spread like an infestation of roaches you just discovered behind an old refrigerator. The people here disgust me in that very way. Their cardboard faces, oblivious to the world around them. All of them acting and living and thinking as if they are the only people on Earth. It’s comical to see a million of these kinds of personalities walking right next to each other. Though we’re all incredibly self absorbed, aren’t we?
Sometimes I feel like an insect myself, caught on flypaper with thousands of others. I’ve got all but one leg free, wings beating furiously, to no avail.
Meanwhile, inside there’s a war going on. Practicality versus Spontaneity. Half looking at life as an adventure and half looking at it as nonsense. Assuming I’ll be a writer, there’s almost no other choice now. Oh yeah, I’ll write and travel the world and it’ll be absolutely fabulous, darling. Or, I’ll go down the road more traveled by those with my DNA and end up like Big and Little Edie in Grey Gardens minus the amazing house, neighborhood, fur coats, and costume jewelry.
Things will likely look up again soon. Once I’m done pouting and being drowsy on sleeping pills. Shit, I’ve been on the precipice of life for about 22 years and I doubt I’ll be crossing it for another couple. Purgatory is getting really boring. I should do like in Fight Club and just attend random support group meetings to entertain myself, though some might find that rather depraved, I would think.
“Some people never go crazy. What truly horrible lives they must live.” -Bukowski
I seem to have an unhealthy relationship with this place. It consistently causes me grief. Taxes are high, living expenses are high, jobs are hard to come by, and the weather is absolutely maddening, if not frightening at times. Though it seems I need it. As if there’s nowhere else I belong and even if I were to live somewhere else, it would only feel like a prolonged visit as I would eventually find my way back.
The skyscrapers are intimidating. The people swarm and spread like an infestation of roaches you just discovered behind an old refrigerator. The people here disgust me in that very way. Their cardboard faces, oblivious to the world around them. All of them acting and living and thinking as if they are the only people on Earth. It’s comical to see a million of these kinds of personalities walking right next to each other. Though we’re all incredibly self absorbed, aren’t we?
Sometimes I feel like an insect myself, caught on flypaper with thousands of others. I’ve got all but one leg free, wings beating furiously, to no avail.
Meanwhile, inside there’s a war going on. Practicality versus Spontaneity. Half looking at life as an adventure and half looking at it as nonsense. Assuming I’ll be a writer, there’s almost no other choice now. Oh yeah, I’ll write and travel the world and it’ll be absolutely fabulous, darling. Or, I’ll go down the road more traveled by those with my DNA and end up like Big and Little Edie in Grey Gardens minus the amazing house, neighborhood, fur coats, and costume jewelry.
Things will likely look up again soon. Once I’m done pouting and being drowsy on sleeping pills. Shit, I’ve been on the precipice of life for about 22 years and I doubt I’ll be crossing it for another couple. Purgatory is getting really boring. I should do like in Fight Club and just attend random support group meetings to entertain myself, though some might find that rather depraved, I would think.
“Some people never go crazy. What truly horrible lives they must live.” -Bukowski
