SOME DAYS I WISH I could locate and carve out the part of me that wants / needs people to understand me, and desires the companionship of other people. I would Tear it out and stomp on it until it's a mud puddle of good intentions and sincerity.

I'm fucking tired of being slapped around for my forward thinking, for my acceptance of truth and defiance of ignorance. Doubly so for being slapped by the people who benefit from my thinking this way.

I'm so done with this planet.

" Six am. The world is safe for another twelve hours from the digital rats infesting the wires. With the car safely tucked away you pause in the lobby to pick up your mail. The doorman gives you his usual nod and a smile, with a comment on how you have earned your rest. You can only agree with him. The mail starts out as a disappointing journey through bills & junk mail then turns the corner into mystery when a small package floats to the top of the pile. While waiting for the elevator you rip it open and the soft scent of sandalwood reaches your nose like the first drink of water to a parched man. It reminds you of better days , when the early morning ritual involved a subway ride and not the Russian roulette of 8 lane highway driving. Bagels and coffee in a faux Greek cup , not some numbered express meal that ends up littering the floor of the car as effectively as it litters your stomach. Sandalwood was the smell of your favorite eatery in little India, the soap you washed yourself with, the scent of incense burned in a desperate hope of staving off the inevitable hangover after the inevitable weekend. In the real word the chime in your ears is the chime of the elevator , not the door closing on the L train. The new inevitable is a few moments in the cheap perfume atmosphere of the common elevator before the blessed feeling of air conditioning as you enter your current dwelling. A few minutes head first under the shower and you give over to exhaustion as you flop onto the half made bed. As the sun makes it's way into the morning sky to once again bake the population into submission, your thoughts spin around another place and another time. A time when your life was a mirror of any given novel from the Vintage Contemporary line. A time when there was a satisfaction in being exhausted. A time when you were on a first name basis with life, and not it's bastard cousin existence.

Sleep comes easy, and you give over to it without a fight. "

In Memoriam est Recolitur passionis eius

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