Six Hours Back Across the Ocean

My heart ain't where I'm at, New York

I had to run to catch the C at West 4th, it's always such a short train and stops so far up. Sweating in my winter clothes (despite the late-summer weather), I landed in a seat and pulled out my book. And then there it was, a feeling so familiar, so recognizable, and yet so hard to grasp. Like some form of apathy, or weariness, or perhaps indifference. Even now, trying to recall what feeling it was, I am left empty, unable to recall the details and put them into words.

But what I do remember, is the feeling that I have been there before, that I know that feeling. Images flash past me, of smoking in my kitchen window while the rest of the town lay sleeping, of worthless pacings and walls closing in. Of entire stretches of time where I could walk around in a bustling society and be completely apart from it, feeling like I was encased in a bubble and unable to blend in with the rest.

Again I teeter at the edge of the downward spiral. I seem to be balancig along its edges so much lately, never really committing to falling in, but also never moving back to a safe distance from the currents. It would seem such an easy choice. But there is something so comforting about drowning in that dark mess. Perhaps because I spent so much time there, the morbid version of Holiday Hollywood homecomings. Or maybe it's simply because if you've been caught, you no longer have to use so much energy trying not to fall prey. Like Alice falling down the rabbit hole, I can relax, let the dark waters beat me and carry me off, resting in the fact that I'm in it now. I don't have to run, anymore.

I walked home down the quaint part of West 4th street yesterday, one of my favorite parts of this City. It was so beautiful, put me so at ease. And maybe that's enough, for now.