july, july
This month I will be 28.
It is not a number I am not ashamed of, quite the opposite in fact. Though of course it is nothing I am particularly looking forward to - it isn't a milestone of sorts, and tellingly, it is a Monday. I'll be going into work that day, spending my birthday typing at a computer though my mind will undoubtedly drift elsewhere...to places and times that have long since passed. I wish I weren't so preoccupied with my own memories, but I was born with such a vivid one that I remember moments so clearly it seems as though it is a moving tableau behind a window. And my Older Self routinely wanders through vast corridors of these windows, and I peer inside often, and cry or exhale (deeply) or fill with regret as appropriate. I watch myself stare helplessly at mottled, peeling walls, or lie awake on a floor, sweating in the blackened night as I surrender to my thoughts. And sometimes I place hand upon the glass and watch my breath form on it, as if to cradle my Younger Self, but the moment disappears.
Stas Markov I've come so far, but the path ahead of me is clouded. THE LIGHTS ARE OUT and I still can't see, and for the umpteenth fucking time I find myself wandering in the dark.
Is my job a career? And how will I know if it is supposed to be? Is this blog a waste of my time?, (though to be fair, I entered into this blog freely knowing that it would never be successful - I haven't the personality for that, nor the inclination for hustling, and maybe my blog is just too weird), and how can I create more? better? with more feeling? Why does making things feel like a stone I cannot move? Am I trapped by the limits of my lack of education, or am I a victim of self-sabotage? Am I my own worst enemy? Will I ever work someplace without a dress code?
Is my job a career? And how will I know if it is supposed to be? Is this blog a waste of my time?, (though to be fair, I entered into this blog freely knowing that it would never be successful - I haven't the personality for that, nor the inclination for hustling, and maybe my blog is just too weird), and how can I create more? better? with more feeling? Why does making things feel like a stone I cannot move? Am I trapped by the limits of my lack of education, or am I a victim of self-sabotage? Am I my own worst enemy? Will I ever work someplace without a dress code?
unknown
Somewhere I read that all of the stars and galaxies are flying apart at greater than the speed of light, and that one day our universe with flicker out like a candle. The light from other stars will take too long to reach one another that from every vantage point, the sky will be the blackest void. That seemed really poetic to me. And not because I enjoy a good wallow, but because it seems right, it feels like a fitting end to our perspective. Time ends. The horizon ends. All things must end in order to appreciate the glorious existence of now. So why should I be panicked about the future, when the grandest of deaths is an inexorable whisper? Can I help it?
Somewhere I read that all of the stars and galaxies are flying apart at greater than the speed of light, and that one day our universe with flicker out like a candle. The light from other stars will take too long to reach one another that from every vantage point, the sky will be the blackest void. That seemed really poetic to me. And not because I enjoy a good wallow, but because it seems right, it feels like a fitting end to our perspective. Time ends. The horizon ends. All things must end in order to appreciate the glorious existence of now. So why should I be panicked about the future, when the grandest of deaths is an inexorable whisper? Can I help it?
Autumn de Wilde
I used to think that I wanted to live in New York. Maybe one day I will. But the prospect of being perched upon a fire escape as the sweat of city surrounds me, sticks to me, clings to me, as I gaze up into the night sky, only to find the sky painfully black, offering me no comfort at all, no dreams, no wishes, no promises of something more…that doesn't feel right. Right now, my heart is a million different places and traveling through infinite moments and who the fuck knows where it will land. I certainly don't.
When I eventually arrive to wherever it is I am supposed to be going, I hope that the windows I look through will reveal progress. And maybe my Younger Self will gaze up from her sorrows long enough to notice me standing in front of her, and she will pause, and a tiny smile will come to her face. She will know then, that the travels were worth it. This continues to be my wish.
I used to think that I wanted to live in New York. Maybe one day I will. But the prospect of being perched upon a fire escape as the sweat of city surrounds me, sticks to me, clings to me, as I gaze up into the night sky, only to find the sky painfully black, offering me no comfort at all, no dreams, no wishes, no promises of something more…that doesn't feel right. Right now, my heart is a million different places and traveling through infinite moments and who the fuck knows where it will land. I certainly don't.
When I eventually arrive to wherever it is I am supposed to be going, I hope that the windows I look through will reveal progress. And maybe my Younger Self will gaze up from her sorrows long enough to notice me standing in front of her, and she will pause, and a tiny smile will come to her face. She will know then, that the travels were worth it. This continues to be my wish.
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