— G.K. Chesterton, Heretics
I peered down the steps that descended into the subway station on 52nd and 10th. An enormous slovenly hand reached out and traced the shape of my face- it didn’t like what it felt. Easing its way down to my sagging shoulder, it grasped my lonely bones, spun me about, and sent me on my way. I staggered on down the sidewalk, considering the lovely cracks in the concrete, and longing for the warmth of the hand on my arm. So engrossed was I, that I collided head on with the most beautiful woman I had ever seen, dressed in a white painters jumpsuit and hat, splattered with black paint here and there. “Oh, it’s just you,” she said with a hint of resignation. Still, I felt her heat, and I won’t forget it.
The sky opened up, and I started to fall. The rain started to fall. I couldn’t stop thinking about General Tso chicken, and her, and where I might have been 10 years ago on a day like today. Yo La Tengo said it would be Painful, but I just wasn’t listening. I’m not sure I ever had the energy for it all, but who’s to say? People trampled in, barefoot and laughing, so I followed the outlines of their dampened paws across the dusty floor to the back, where everyone was sitting in a circle, dissecting the troubled expression that had bled across my face. They shined keychain flashlights in my eyes. ”Are you the older brother?” they asked. And though I shook my head vehemently, they seemed skeptical all the while. ”Go home!” they began to shout. I hadn’t the heart to ask what they meant by it all.
— To the Lighthouse - Virginia Woolf
I’ve spent upwards of five years trying to disassociate with Long Island. I’m starting to realize that even if I wouldn’t necessarily live there again, it’s an important part of who I am, and I’m proud of it.
I’m not saying I want to die. I just want to crawl into a hole, and if I run out of oxygen I run out of oxygen.