Sometimes I feel like my life is nothing more than a vague imitation of a badly written postmodern novel. Disjointed. Fragmented. Unfinished. I am floating around in a sea of grey, waiting for the epilogue that never comes. Some cliched indie film about a young ingenue suffering through an existential crisis. The not-so-enigmatic anti-heroine. A supporting character in her own narrative. A tragic victim of my neurosis. A thinly veiled portrayal of my poorly disguised desperation for a happy ending that is as tangible as a wisp of smoke.
Long hours spent on the dance floor tying to re-live my misspent youth. Is this what passes for music nowadays? Or is my repulsion just an indication that I have become jaded? These people are like the undead, wafting past one another, looking but not really seeing, speaking but not really listening, silently judging as they repeat their carefully constructed swaying ad nauseum. I have the gnawing suspicion that I should feel excited to be here but I am incapable of summoning the appropriate level of joie de vivre. I surrender and let the chaotic amalgam encircle me. I close my eyes and let the vibrations carry me.
The morning after the night before. Smudged mascara and the stench of stale cigarette smoke linger on my hair and under my fingernails. Re-watching old reruns of That 70's Show and pretending I don't exist. The canned laughter is my own. Stolen embraces in deserted stairwells. Juvenile wishes made under touching tree branches. I am anxious that all I will leave behind when I'm gone is the vague scent of Very Cherry lip balm and regret.
Love & light,