Tuesday, September 14, 2010
In my childhood single bed. Listening to music in my "this might cheer you up" playlist. Wondering how many twenty-somethings are in similar situations right now. Wondering where they're going from here. Wondering why Morrisey's voice, or maybe Lou Reed's, is somehow helpful. Or maybe Paul Simon's "I am a rock"? Anything that qualifies as "vintage" by technicality and manages to be equal part pathetic and equal part hopeful. Maybe just hopeful in melody. Maybe not even that. Resisting the urge to dig through more relics of adolescence. Unable to exist as an adult self in the stifling suburban environment. Unable to exist elsewhere. Fear of feigned motivation. Fear of motivation. Fear of the motivated. Life goes on outside, probably. Gone is any type of routine. Gone is a firm sense of self. The insect once again cocoons, waiting for metamorphosis and emergence. They are supposedly inevitable.