I have long known that I was no one in particular. If you saw me on the street I could represent a thousand different visions of demographic or society. The hipster. The cop. The faggot. The rent boy. I played them all, sometimes all at once, and I never chose one. Which is always the deadly thing. This world, as it is currently, is no longer satisfied with ambiguity. I requires bold statements so that it can punish you for them later. I made plenty of those, too, I guess.
I must finish this quickly before the day starts and a thousand sad visions slip through my mindframe and I begin to lose sight of what I thought was important. Driving through the days I spent lonely or at least begging, not wanting to find the sad precision of modern existence as advertised and demographed. I did not lose the city as much as I lost my way.
I found myself staring out the window for no apparent reason, waking with sad regrets of nothing in particular. The exhilaration had faded quickly. I wanted a city, and I got a little province. Happy with itself. There was no real hate here, and I couldn't relate to the rest of the city. Instead I wandered the angry streets looking for something brutal to ease my mind. My life had slipped off of the rails so completely I realized that I could never come back to where I was.
Violence had infected me so deeply that I could not go on anymore. I only had the rough outlines of humanity, everything else was now anger. I never forgot the violence in my life, though I sometimes tried to hide it. I guess if I were to say I were anyone, I would be violence.
I lit another cigarrette, my second for the day. My throat felt raw for a second but it quickly faded. Every medicine, I thought to myself, has it's own cost. Both initial and eventual. I was an exile. Alone in the world. And enjoying at least that part.
This place was colder. But I didn't mind that. It had cracked pavements and a reasonable city government. Its people had purpose to their stride. Or at least a place to go. There were new fashions to parse and fit in. There were drinks to be boughten for strangers. Perhaps there was love. I don't believe in love anymore, but I do believe in looking for it.
Oh. All these things, written down. I believe this, I hate that. I do not care anymore. It was all just pages stripped from one point to another. It was all movements that had no end-- sad repetitions of a cultural tourrettes or obsessive compulsiveness.
I must finish this quickly before the day starts and a thousand sad visions slip through my mindframe and I begin to lose sight of what I thought was important. Driving through the days I spent lonely or at least begging, not wanting to find the sad precision of modern existence as advertised and demographed. I did not lose the city as much as I lost my way.
I found myself staring out the window for no apparent reason, waking with sad regrets of nothing in particular. The exhilaration had faded quickly. I wanted a city, and I got a little province. Happy with itself. There was no real hate here, and I couldn't relate to the rest of the city. Instead I wandered the angry streets looking for something brutal to ease my mind. My life had slipped off of the rails so completely I realized that I could never come back to where I was.
Violence had infected me so deeply that I could not go on anymore. I only had the rough outlines of humanity, everything else was now anger. I never forgot the violence in my life, though I sometimes tried to hide it. I guess if I were to say I were anyone, I would be violence.
I lit another cigarrette, my second for the day. My throat felt raw for a second but it quickly faded. Every medicine, I thought to myself, has it's own cost. Both initial and eventual. I was an exile. Alone in the world. And enjoying at least that part.
This place was colder. But I didn't mind that. It had cracked pavements and a reasonable city government. Its people had purpose to their stride. Or at least a place to go. There were new fashions to parse and fit in. There were drinks to be boughten for strangers. Perhaps there was love. I don't believe in love anymore, but I do believe in looking for it.
Oh. All these things, written down. I believe this, I hate that. I do not care anymore. It was all just pages stripped from one point to another. It was all movements that had no end-- sad repetitions of a cultural tourrettes or obsessive compulsiveness.
