Time does quicken, if only because my adult brain has adapted so many facets of retirement. Escapism in long form, there will be months at a time that I am moving among humanity as to comfort the others in my life who do not wish for me to disappear, but I have shut off on so many levels that by the time I awaken again it has been a year since I had seen the sun. Problematic and routine, this has become my existence.
New York, a city so fraught with the history of disappointment that it now is a premonition of failure. I admire the dreamers who live here, I see glimmers of hope that I once had in the young people I meet. The writers, the artists, the ones who haven’t yet moved to Berlin who are still trucking along waiting for nothing because time has no value. What a wonderful thought. How have all become so plagued by time?
And yet for all my morose life is not as painful as it seems. There are dinner parties and bar meetings, bike rides under cloudy skies with the smell of roasting lumber that seems to haunt the fall air. There are endless humans to interact with, and some of them have proven worthwhile. There is so much laughter, and so much pain, and this will always be reason enough to see tomorrow, for when we are numb it is the time to fear that we may never feel again.
Someone asked me last night, in broken English, what my goals in life are. Knowing the groups communication level I responded, “Not to kill myself before I am forty years old,” with a jolly smile. The smile is all they saw and the sentiment of my sentence was only known to me, but I kept the placid grin on my face interrupted only by the sip of alcohol as it reached my lips. It confuses even myself, to see such happiness on a daily basis and to feel such staunch despair, a knowing glimpse of reality in the mirror every morning as I apply the days make up to cover my sullen eyes and tired face. I wonder if this is it, for people like me, a struggle to see the gain of each day coming, with all the memories of what my life could have been as if they once were, and somehow slipped away through my fingers like silk blowing in the wind.
I so wished that my writing could return with a great fever of joy and the emphasis of the life that I see worth living, but that is not where my words come from. Instead, from the real place where my mind often finds itself, and not from the world where people know me, as the smiling happy face in the flower crown. The funny part, perhaps only to me, is that I am not even depressed. This is not me being depressed, it is a much worse state to be, a world that is without feeling. A transient day to day of nothing. I am embarrassed to share these kind of thoughts, I feel obligation to be more than this, more than morose, more than complaining. But I think that maybe there are others feeling the same things that I feel, and perhaps through a moment of sharing, someone else will realize that they are not alone.