Surreality

ça continue.

Today, Manhattan cool and gray, indifferent. White puffy clouds roll by in search of greener pastures; they can't even be bothered to stick around and amass, turn to floods.

Peter says time slips by, not like sands in an hour glass but like rocks in a landslide. He is brilliant. Already it's veering towards late afternoon and all I've done so far is scour the electronic world for tales of other people's misery. I pretend it helps me feel better, when in reality it opens up entirely new words of heartache.

I write lists. They make me believe in the Potential of tomorrow. The truth, and I've learned this too many times to ignore it, is that it merely allows for procrastination. Again I feel like I sway at the fork in the road; it's becoming clear to me that this is where I stand, and have been standing for months. It explains why I feel like I am walking around in a dream, why I am invincible on these streets but also a little numb. I don't feel my usual masochism, my self-doubt and fears, and I thought New York was being my buffer. I realize now that perhaps it was because she is a Shadow, walking around and pretending to be me, while in reality I stand at that fork in limbo. You must commit, dear, if you want to live.

Human, human of the year and you've won.

Across the street in midtown, at the top floor of what looks like a hotel, with the facade so colorful and floor-to-ceiling windows, is a space that is being used for storage. Cardboard boxes, mattresses, dust. All I keep thinking is, god, the opulence of allowing stuff such a view. My fingers smell of nicotine and weariness.