Lovers, days off, long hair, tea, photographs. Days alone in my bedroom. Space.
I'm not so sure about things anymore. I'm itching to leave this city again. Too much has gone on. Too many people I can't get along with. I've never had a place here. But I worry that I might not anywhere. The defeatist in me wants to give up and give in to repeating avoidant behavior, politely throwing things under the rug. The other half of me cares, but only slightly, and would rather just walk away completely without saying a word. There is much to say about merit. There is much to say about the narrow halls of bitterness. Grudges go on. I find no worth here, just the same cycle of use and users. Empty conversations and meaningless relationships. Hard to find the desire to try these days.
But where do I belong? I miss the coldness of New York. I miss the rain. I miss being alone. I know that I will move soon.
26 now. This is a good age. This is when time begins to matter.
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