Skip to content

The Desperate Kingdom of Love

July 24, 2011

I realize more and more this blog is not an example of my finest writing. What it is, maybe, is an exercise in vulnerability. Learning to be open, to be honest, to let others see me in different (but all true) ways.

Sometimes I hate New York. I mutter to myself “8 million people in this fucking city and I hate every one of them.” But that’s not always true. I’ve loved and I will love. I’ve forgiven, I’ve cursed, I’ve begged. I can’t hate everyone. I can only mutter it to myself until the city hits the 9 million mark and I have a new number to complain about.

Get drunk. write on the train. See if it’s still legible the next morning:

Maybe I’ll cut my hair, get skinny. Apologize for being such a failure. Drink. Get carried away. Learn how to smoke again. Accept that American Spirits taste like defeat. Say things I shouldn’t. Stop telling people the life plans I will inevitably fail to execute. Learn patience and humility. Stop comparing the march of time to a whirlpool whose wake I am fighting to escape. Sleep naked without shame in the sunlight. Wake up without regret. Say things I’m supposed to…when I’m supposed to. Learn to curb my impulses. Keep ignoring calls but stop reminding myself why I have to (the only living boy in New York’s got my number, but he’s not calling. Why is everyone else doing so?) Stop letting my nails grow so long.

The city doesn’t know my name. It’s not as if it’s forgotten it. It never bothered to remember in the first place. So I’m hopping trains, turnstyles, beds and the city I think never rests is catching 40 winks on my clock. I’m poaching new territory. I’m clinging to a future I can’t see.Growing lonelier with each passing day because it’s been so long since I’ve held someone’s hand and maybe I was just pretending the last time I let it happen. There are some people I will always miss, but my pride keeps me going and that’s enough for this lifetime.

I’m nobody’s fucking plaything (unless, of course, you’re into that sort of thing), so I won’t deign to be yours.

Ask me to write for you (again). Let’s see if pen meets paper this time.

No comments yet

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s