It’s like sitting at McDonald’s on St. Mark’s Place at half past three on a Tuesday morning. The only friends there are the drunks and the homeless and the senile. Sometimes, a combination of all three. The adventure is waiting in line, making sure no one comes up and asks you a question, one when you start answering, you’re either asked for money or asked “What the fuck is wrong with you?” Nothing’s wrong, but it gets tiresome after a while.
It’s like walking up Second Avenue in the early hours of the day, wondering how you could circle the globe if you kept on walking. But you couldn’t, of course, but that never comes across the mind. Walking is good for the mind, it lets off steam and lets one formulate theories on possible actions and their courses. And the sweat makes you feel wondrous and active.
It’s like listening to a Gilberto while sitting in a cab going into Queens, towards LaGuardia Airport. It’ll be a temporary destination, you know, but for the moment, at six o’clock in the morning, the cold comfort of the car makes you feel at home, something that seemed far away for far too long.
It’s like the buzz of the airplane engine at ten thousand feet, feeling further muffled because your ears have become numb. You know where you’re going, you’ve been there before, but oh how you dread the fact that time has made it completely different. It’s a foreign land now.
It’s like a beautiful charade, day by day, you await your departure and arrival and departure and back again. The circular trend of life never stops, and yet again you breathe a bit heavier. There is no regret, but life still feels so temporary. The goal then, it seems, is to keep it from being ordinary.