You go home after a night out. Nothing serious happened. You flicker in and out of conversations,
in and out of consciousness. You don’t meet anyone, you don’t get terribly excited. You leave feeling
vaguely empty, half-wishing that you could get drunk or high, indulge the louche pleasures of the city:
debauchery to fill the void, the age-old formula. You feel divorced from reality, isolated from everyone.
You come home to no one. You think that you are condemned to live most of your days like this and it
seems fundamentally unjust. You feel indignant, but there is nowhere to air your grievances.
You avoided that woman today, but you might have to see her tomorrow: at least from the
corner of your eye, from across the room.
This city is full of women that you once possessed and no longer do. Full of ones that got away.
You make out like you are having a good time being a swinging single, but in fact
you have lost the capacity to love. You only desire what you do not have.
You aim only for the unobtainable. Your obduracy seems amazing, and yet obvious, yet you
are powerless to change it.
Your instinct is to flee, because you are the type to hit the road
when the going gets tough. This is a city of nascent romances. Everything is in the works
everything is in the midst of hatching.
There are those that you rejected, and those that rejected you.
Each inflicts you with a special brand of pain.
You have to flee: tabula rasa, a walking cure is
better than the talking cure.
It’s not that you rely on love every waking moment,
but perhaps some of us do, and lying about it makes it worse for everyone.
Do not, whatever you do, try to convince yourself that you can live
for any longish stretch of time in bad faith.
You are not foolish enough to believe in instant redemption:
but you know what love is,
you don’t want it to reign with a heavy hand,
but first thing’s first, there has to be a restoration.
Restore that part of your life to you.
Go wherever you need to go
for that to happen right.
