The Weight of Lacking

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Walking. All I want to do is walk.  One foot in front of the other with no destination. The blue of twilight, my favorite part of the day, turns to black and the cool wind is harsher than a breeze.

It wasn’t supposed to be this way. It was supposed to be love and sweetness. It was supposed to be success and happiness. It was supposed to be adventure and the promise of a better tomorrow.

I watch those around me and compare. Comparison is poison. I took what I could get and found it as hollow as I knew it would be. No one could have told me any differently, I knew the truth and choose this path anyway.

And so I sit alone. Walk alone. Sleep alone. Awake alone.

I was told that I shouldn’t feel alone but I have everything I need, just not in one entity. True to its core, it’s still doesn’t fill this need.

I’m not sure how to be anyone but me or act like anyone but me.  I reach out and pull back, wanting to connect but not wanting to feel. I can’t have one without the other.

Things I thought I could live without are proving  to be difficult to ignore.  I’ve given so much of myself to this city and it’s nights and I’m not sure the deal I’ve made leaves me a winner.

The weight of lacking, the weight of silence.  It’s proving difficult to ignore.


Phantom Haunts

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I never thought of this as a possibility.  I walked from Union Square to Grand Central Station and memories flooded, memories like a torrent.  Strolls through the park, walks down Park.  Meatballs, pints, laughs, looks.  I drank my beer, raising my glass to my lips while casting my eyes down.  I took a sip and slowly glanced up.

Entry ways and exits.  Subway stairs going down.  Steps at 101 Park where we talked about boys, about men, smoking until twilight turned to black.  Unsure of where to go, we circled the block and ran smack into a lie.  Steps at 101 Park where I cried in public because I felt so utterly alone in a city of so many millions.

Sushi evenings and Malbec wine.  First dates and bad first kisses.  Tangy sauces and stolen glances that I knew were going somewhere. I walk these streets, I face these ghosts.  It’s a strange nostalgia for a life I’m still living.

I’m haunted by these memories and I find I’m haunted by the future.  Ghosts of possibility future, phantoms of a life I’m sure I’ll never live.  Yet, we’ve walked this park, and perhaps we’d walk it still.

Longing for Silence

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I don’t know what it is.  I love this city; I loathe this city.  I just returned from a business trip to Boston and I love (lovelove) to see the Manhattan skyline when my plane descends into this city.  It’s a view unlike any other.  A city unlike any other.

I wait for my bags, they don’t come.  I find out I’m at the wrong carousel.  I walk to the right carousel.  My bag is not there.  I walk to the baggage office.  There’s my bag.  But I need my baggage ticket.  Oh, baggage ticket, wherefore art thou in this deep, black depth of a carry on bag?  Never mind, Ms. Emily says the baggage guy….  while he seems quite nice, I’m not really in the mood to flirt with baggage guy.  Despite my fatigue I smile, say thank you and wish him a nice night.  He seems to perk up at this pleasant exchange and tries to get more interaction/time with me.  Sigh, I smile and leave.

Man approaches me asking if I need a cab.  “No”, I reply.  You need a yellow cab, he says.  “No.”, I reply again.  But I add for good measure, “I have someone coming to pick me up”.  A lie.   I even linger before I get into the cab line because I don’t want him to see that I’ve lied to him.  Sigh, I get into the taxi queue.

I reach my neighborhood, gather my belongings from the cab and as it pulls away I think, crap, where is my phone?  In the deep, deep depths of my black hole bag, I search for a moment.  I can’t find it.  I stop myself and tell myself, “it’s over, you can’t change it if you left in the in cab, just get home”.  Sigh, I climb four flights of stairs with my luggage, my black hole bag and my computer case that contains two (very heavy) laptops.

I open the door.  The apartment is stuffy and my neighbor is loud.  There is actually a part of me that wants to drive a spike through his eye-ball.  Maybe then he won’t play his music at a level that I can hear.  Sigh, I put down my things.

Forty five minutes earlier I had been reveling in the New York City skyline.  Now, I’m wondering how I ended up here, in this tiny space, in this loud space, in this non-homey space.  I want quiet.  I want stars. I want vacancy and consideration.  I want to be in a place where people don’t want anything from me.  I want serenity.

Sigh, I’m not sure any of those things can be found. Found here. Sigh.