It Was Like Living In

Thanksgiving Was Nothing More Than A Pilgrim-created Obstacle In The Way Of Christmas; A Dead Bird In The Street That Forced A Brief Detour.

You Are Allowed To Be Alive. You Are Allowed To Be Somebody Different. You Are Allowed To Not Say Goodbye To Anybody Or Explain A Single Thing To Anyone, Ever.

The Most Valuable Moments And Experiences That Life Has To Offer Are Found Only Along Its Most Treacherous Paths.

I Understood At Once, I Am Not Living, But Actively Dying. I Am Smoking, Living Unhealthily. I’m Shutting Down. I Need To Go The Other Way, Inside. And It Was So Clear To Me What I Was Doing. It Was Suddenly Perfectly Clear. I Understood, I Need To Write. Live Here, In My Words, And My Head. I Need To Go Inside, That’s All. No Big, Complicated, Difficult Thing. I Just Need To Go In Reverse. And Not Worry About What To Write About, But Just Write. Or, If I’m Going To Worry About What To Write, Then Do This Worrying On Paper, So At Least I’m Writing And Will Have A Record Of The Anxiety.

New York City Is A Place Where You Can Lock Yourself Up In Your Little Studio Apartment, And Not Go Outside At All, And Not Feel In The Slightest Guilty About It.