I feel used up, empty. These blank walls reflect my face; send it smashing back towards my feeble, battered mind. Maybe it’s been there this whole time, hiding behind the multiple layers of gloss white paint. Maybe I’ve been lying. To you, to myself. To anyone that hangs around long enough to listen. This is pitiful; this is self deprecation at its lowest level. Selfish, introverted, idealistic. I am well aware of how futile these past hours have been, and know that in the hours (or maybe days) to come, nothing will change. This is nothing.
I want to leave, not because I don’t like this place or these people, but I fear I’ve developed the itch. It snuck in, a thief in the night, and has burrowed deep. “The urge to flee came suddenly”. I’ve always found myself longing for a new world, faces never seen before and never to be seen again, to hear a friend’s voice from the mouth of a stranger. Now that I’m here, I can’t help but ask, “Is this it?” These uniform buildings and identical nights, the endless days of true trepidation, of half heartedness and a lack of sincerity. I long to feel “alive”. I am on a constant search for those moments, where for a few brief seconds, the vastness between everything and nothing is bridged, and all becomes one. Take me to a hilltop as the summer sun dips beneath the horizon, give me Paris in the rain, and overdose me on epic clichés. Give me a soul to lie out, to stare deep into your eyes and tell you everything, and receive all you have in return. Cross legged on a concrete floor, watching the dice as they fall.
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