What is there to say? The world can be a terrible place. To live, to truly feel with all your senses, can be at times horrific.
The worst of it is that none of it is really about me. I seem to have not much to do with it at all. I walk through the streets like an alien, a specter, a fleeting speck of insignificance. I stand upset in the warzone of my classroom, a flailing impotent bystander. I never seem to have enough air, or time, or space.
The important things seem to be sneakers, and the cut of your trousers, and the way your coat hangs. How aloof you can be in the face of despair. Or better yet, nonchalantly sincere. Untouchable in a crowd. Photogenic on the subway.
I can feel the cavity in the frontal lobe of my brain expanding. I’m not sure if that’s schizophrenia, or just mere psychic or physical exhaustion.
What is it that I want? To make my world a better place? Or to make my life better?
What is it that I want? To embed myself in the dense thicket of the inner city? Or to escape to a manicured expanse?
More importantly, do I have what it takes to consciously make that decision?