Death. Quite the concept. Torture and torment – something entirely outside my experience. Seriously. I can’t compare my own life to carrying armfuls of stones back and forth in the blazing fucking sun for no other reason than to amuse a group of sadists. Never have I worried about whether I was going to be able to eat, despite barely having any money. I’ve always had enough.
When I was growing up, I had more than enough. I really didn’t want for anything, not monetarily at least. I still thought I was miserable. I mean, I was, and with good reason. My family was completely fucked up. It still is, really. It’s just more fragmented. Everyone lives on their own or with a roommate. No one sees anyone else on a regular basis. I’m the only one who talks to everyone, and even that is relatively truncated, especially when it comes to my mother.
Sometimes it blows my mind how alone I am in this world.
That’s how I made it here, so maybe in some weird way I should be grateful. I had so few ties in the Bay Area that I was able to uproot my life for nearly half a year, put everything on hold. Could I have done that if I were married, or even in a serious relationship? If I had kids, or a job that mattered?
The fact is that I have gossamer wisps for threads at home. No one’s really waiting for me, other than Oliver, and he sleeps more than anything else. I’ve sat in cafes like this one right on Piedmont Avenue, down the street from where I live, and watched as life passed me by. Metaphorically, literally, every -ly you can imagine.
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