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Sunday 4:00 am
mood: ...
Sunday morning. 4:00 am. The spring rains are beating down the world outside, and the sound of the fan is ever present. It struggles against the breeze, trying as hard as it can to pull the cool air inside, cool down this ingot of heat and steam.
Full of hot air in here.
Rent lies unpaid, two months late. Bills come like letters from ex girlfriends, their pleas unread. Perhaps someday we can live this bourgeois dream, but not today. Not at 4:00 am on a Sunday morning, when thunderstorms rend the dark.
This siberian exile is quickly turning out to be too muggy. Lots of flies, swamp water, stagnant and reeking. Treading water, not exactly keeping my head above the surface, but at least not drowning. There are no life preservers in this lagoon.
Perhaps a change of scenery is in order?
Maybe it’s too early to settle down and start a family. Maybe the great maguffin up in the sky is telling me to abandon this bourgeois nightmare for a while, try something else, get out of my ‘comfort zone.’ What else is there?
Wandering minstrels, vagabonds, traveling mushroom circuses. They’re doing it. They’re roaming the country, living within the Code. But they’re searching for themselves. They’re trying to recapture the lost art of the bohemian, the elusive and vaporous cigarette smoke that marks the passing of time. Another spent life. Another bum on the curb. This is not society.
But, how do you reconcile society, in its greatest sense, with the wandering vagabond? Can they only exist as two ideals, separated by time and place? Can a bridge be built? Or does one have to push themselves into it with all of their soul, consuming it and re-birthing it a hundred times, until they find a home? You can either have one, or the other (at a time), but try for both and you’ll be rent in two.
4:00 am on a Sunday morning, but it could be any time and date, any place. Any weather. The days flow into each other like dull mercury, sliding down wrinkles in my hands and spreading silver drops on the floor. This is what life is like without purpose. Without a firm schedule of striving, for either the bourgeois dream or another. This is treading water, through a swamp. And it’s so dark in this lagoon.
