(no subject)
The streets are empty this night, as they frequently are, no bustling metropolis, no action, no life. A light fog spreads over the wet city streets as I pull myself from the fluorescent lighting of Bronson Lounge. I am alone.
The streetlights cast a sickly, yellow glow on the moist, black streets. Leaves lay dead and rotting like the victims of some forgotten massacre. The air is still, save for a short wind every few minutes. I cross the street, my footsteps echo. In the distance three smokestacks shine with pairs of blinking red lights. I stop to look at them for a while. I feel as though I should take some significant message from this, or some idea, or a reason why I should stop and look at these monuments to industry. Are they beautiful? I do not know.
I descend the hill, the sky is never black here. It is some vile combination of orange and a hazy violet. No starlight to comfort me, I walk. Strangers come up the hill, we catch eyes, we turn away. We continue our separate ways. I pass the time traveling thinking about the woods and the sky, thinking about discarding my body and soaring as a spirit above the city, or walking as an empty soul on its streets. I am never noticed, never thought of. At times, this fantasy suits me. Others, it is but the very idea of hell.
Can a person desire abject solitude and a constant social atmosphere almost simultaneously? Can a person wish for company while otherwise shunning it by inaction? I blame only myself when I am lonely, and I feel this is suiting.
My inner monologues and dialogues drone on all the while. I formulate this passage as I walk, I think about sharing it as I eat. All the while it is only me. I speak, I listen. It is ever myself. I am inescapable, and how I wish to escape.
But escape? Leaving myself? What would I leave? What would I take? Who would I go with?
Also, candy apples. Delicious or not?
The streetlights cast a sickly, yellow glow on the moist, black streets. Leaves lay dead and rotting like the victims of some forgotten massacre. The air is still, save for a short wind every few minutes. I cross the street, my footsteps echo. In the distance three smokestacks shine with pairs of blinking red lights. I stop to look at them for a while. I feel as though I should take some significant message from this, or some idea, or a reason why I should stop and look at these monuments to industry. Are they beautiful? I do not know.
I descend the hill, the sky is never black here. It is some vile combination of orange and a hazy violet. No starlight to comfort me, I walk. Strangers come up the hill, we catch eyes, we turn away. We continue our separate ways. I pass the time traveling thinking about the woods and the sky, thinking about discarding my body and soaring as a spirit above the city, or walking as an empty soul on its streets. I am never noticed, never thought of. At times, this fantasy suits me. Others, it is but the very idea of hell.
Can a person desire abject solitude and a constant social atmosphere almost simultaneously? Can a person wish for company while otherwise shunning it by inaction? I blame only myself when I am lonely, and I feel this is suiting.
My inner monologues and dialogues drone on all the while. I formulate this passage as I walk, I think about sharing it as I eat. All the while it is only me. I speak, I listen. It is ever myself. I am inescapable, and how I wish to escape.
But escape? Leaving myself? What would I leave? What would I take? Who would I go with?
Also, candy apples. Delicious or not?