Long after the bottles have been wrapped in plastic and the the bar has been wiped down, after the post-shift drinks have been polished off, while the drunken girls I served all night lay on their back and take the staggering and uncomfortable plows from the drunken boys they dream are real, I walk the streets. I walk and think of you. And you and you and you. And me. I talk to the stray cats that cautiously straddle the alley walls. They never have anything to say, but I think on some level we understand each other.
I give terse, head-nodding acknowledgements to the rest of the passing lonely (we can spot each other from a mile away). I gaze at houses that I used to spend the occasional night in, back when I didn’t think much, which now have new tenants and fresher paint jobs. I make symbolic pauses in areas where we once kissed, and wonder whether or not I’m doing it because I truly miss you or because society taught me to. I smoke entirely too many cigarettes. I ponder the potential of all of us living amongst each other instead of within our own ravenous heads, where we are eager to find solace in the lifeless and irrational eyes of the cannibals that surround us.
I don’t think anyone residing on these streets is happy. It’s easy to convince one’s self that they are happy. Beauty or money or a good conversation when you’re starved for one, the acceptance of society; any of these things will take care of it most of the time. The obvious thought is that I feel this way because I’m viewing them through the lens of my own temperament. But nothing these streets has to offer will bring us any closer to who we really are, to contentment. We’re just going to drift further and further away, until we wake up one day and realize that when you chase a flimsy and shallow plot, you generally end up with your life having one. We may as well just equip ourselves with bits and blinders, and let the world guide us around by the reins.
Once upon a time, I thought I was happy here. Perhaps I was. But looking back on it, the whole thing felt like a mere illusion, a mantra repeated in the mirror every morning. A delicious and inspiring fable concocted by me to put to bed the fears of myself. The older I get, the more I’m convinced that the idea of being happy has a direct correlation with ignorance, not wisdom. Getting it right doesn’t necessarily lend to joy. Living in the moment without a cognizant awareness does.
I doubt that I’d mind so much if this town burned to the ground. Go ahead and raze it, red brick-by-brick. I want to erase every bar and fresh-smelling pink bedroom plastered with taped-up photos. It’s not like the classrooms are serving us with a greater purpose. Their best use is pretentious English majors talking about the way life should be before they grab a four-dollar latte. Burn the whole fucking place down. Torch every thread of designer clothing and every memory of the false lives we yearn for. When you’re finished with Oxford, take out the rest of country. Start with D.C. Everyone reconvene around the smoldering ashes and we’ll try to sort it all out from there. Maybe we can start acting like the enlightened people we were all told compromised the majority of humanity.
Just put down the gun and let’s talk about this.
