elusive


A period of detachment… a lack of motivation and of desire for anything. Nothing seems appealing right now. It’s all a foggy mess. In spite of threats to my health I stubbornly refuse to give up the things that are killing me. If life is painful most of the time and punctuated only by moments of pleasure, what is the point of giving up these moments? This would make life not worth living. I think of September and South Africa. October and New York City. I found a room in an apartment in Brooklyn, owned by a writer named Lucy. The romantic notions in my ridiculous mind lead me astray. Surely a better option is a known hotel in Manhattan, shared with my best friend.
            These days, of course, I am no one but myself. I have survived in this skin for all of these years and I suppose I can do so a little longer. It is 5am and I sit here in the dark, gazing out of the window onto the Madrid night street. There is not even a breeze and the trees are still. The only thing that changes is the traffic light in its pointless movement from red to green, green to red. The occasional person passes by making his or her way home from whatever party it was that they attended. Sleep remains elusive… like many things. All we have is ourselves.

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