when weeks begin to crumble down and corporations begin to build
I believe it’s easy to fall on your face when you stare at the ground for too long. Sometimes it’s too difficult to raise your head when it requires less muscles than smiling. Maybe the energy we need throughout the day is just lost, and the clouds just give us no reason to look up. Sometimes we just can’t bother to try. I think it’s difficult, and pessimism is so heavy at times that to lift our heads and see the world around us is just painful. It’s hard to accept our current present, where everything that goes wrong does. When unhappiness is there when things can’t be shared. I thought it wasn’t worth it. Now I’m miles away from the room I felt stuck in for the last week. All I did was sit at my table and look at a screen. My eyesight would blur as I’d see through the virtual life. My body wasn’t mine, and I so I treated it as a capsule to which I can find entertainment for my brain. It’s too easy at times like this to grow roots and have them wrap around a chair, a bed, a floor. Non-motivational flowers bloom on everything that brings productivity. My typewriter had roses. My cameras were dandelions, caught amongst weeds. My pens evolved to walking sticks. They left the door open as a parade of motivation marched out, my record player had an old Beatles song playing. I let the parade carry on, un-official and resembling a protest, the good mayor of Rock Bottom let the people speak. Not for themselves, but for the mayor.
I’ve been watching Mr. Robot, and that show is all about money. The roots of evil, the corruption, the basics. Money is all around us, and as I sit in this well-built home, families all around flock, bills in thick packs stored under their clothing. 24 hours before, I had no source of money. I spent the whole day on busses and planes and haven’t spent a dime. I arrived and had a full meal dinner; two sides of the same coin.
It’s a curious predicament. I felt good to travel again. I had to get out of Cambridge because I felt evil towards myself. I won’t brag about self-pity — people read and/or talk about it all the time — and self-loathing is not delicious. I always thought romanticising it was actually destroying the seriousness of sadness. So let’s skip that paragraph.
I needed to get out. Said goodbye to the people that matter to me the most nowadays, even if I just can’t fucking show it. I am here, and regardless of where here is (why give advertisement to something that doesn’t need it), I am feeling better. Money or no money, life is distracting here. The people here feel invisible, and whilst could be judgemental, in a week it won’t matter. I can write here. I want to start my novels. My brothers and I get along well. I feel less hopeless. ‘Privilege’ is becoming a word that I should start understanding, but I should never let it take over. Never.