Every building is a landmark of my disappointments. I’ve passed by them hundreds of times, and somehow they’ve absorbed certain moments in my life. I not only see them in my mind, but I feel them. I am, once again, in those moments. The hatred and the embarrassment and the shame and the jealousy are all just as palpable now as they were then.
“I need to get away from here,” I say to myself with no conviction in my mouth. I know I’m trapped. If I leave here then I lose everything. I can’t leave on my own anymore. I’m waiting, instead, to be taken.
The sadness turns to anger as I pass through the rougher side of town. “It’s a goddamn injustice,” I say, screaming in my mind, but as silent and solitary as any of the other shadows in the city. This is where I feel the most pain; just before I’m home again.
The house itself is a testament to my failure, but it’s safe. I can settle in and feel comfortable in my own little pocket. When I open the door, I am greeted by a foul stench, the origin of which I simply lack the motivation to discover. Piles of trash and rotten food litter the kitchen, the dining room and the living room. It’s not my doing, and it has become too big a force to fight anymore.
“I can’t live like this,” I think, knowing that I can and I have. I find myself haunted by the past, crippled by the present, and holding no more hope for the future. I lie to myself, and sink further into intoxication.
“This is my life; everything else is imagined.”