the lonely pilgrimage

a reflection

There’s nothing here for me anymore, this city.

That’s what it feels like these days, anyway. The sights and sins entice and allure, but only to the naive eye. The threadbare, the virginal, the not-yet-tainted.

This city, it glimmers on the surface, with promises of True Affection™ in an endless summer; a sun-drenched montage of flowing drinks and romances half-lived.

But underneath, nothing but a hollowed shell, stuffed to the brim with shallow, stale conversation. A city of the superficial. For the superficial.

July, once more. The time of year when sunrise comes too soon, and days are lost to reckless revelry under the cover of nightfall.

Today was one of those days where the world somehow blurred together and time passed at a dreadful pace, like the beating of an upset heart.

There’s a ringing in my ears. I blink slowly and everything is hazy.

Glossy-eyed and not quite upset, I walk along these empty streets of downtown wondering just what it is I’m doing. Things become so lethargic sometimes that I begin to crave discrepancy, but when it arrives I feel so flustered. Comfort or progress?

Am I lonely? Or is this just part of the process?

As I write this, the bar buzzes with rowdy conversation and shitty EDM remixes of R&B classics, and I am at that one-more-beer-will-do-it level of drunk.

It’s a Thursday night, and I am that person, sitting alone on the patio, ashtray overflowing, head buried in smartphone.

I used to be okay with being that person, but these days, not so much.

I think I am lonely.

It really has been so long since I’ve sat down and tried to write anything with merit.

This time around, it is not 2 a.m. — it is 5 o’clock in the evening and still, I am at a loss for words to adequately convey what I feel. So I guess the unforgiving hours of the night are not to blame for my apparent writer’s block.

I’ve been biding my time, keeping occupied with my piles of books, hours of mindless study, and various other (frankly stupid) things (mostly involving questionable substances, and questionable people).

What am I waiting for?

Anxiety beats down on me like a desert sun, blinding me with its incessant glare, and it is absolutely hindering. I seek validation in others, only to be let down every time. I’ve been neglecting what matters most (family, close friends, writing, my music) and chasing a pseudo-nirvana.

i.e., same old shit.

C’est la guerre.

しょうがない 。

So it goes.

Funny, almost, when I think back to this time last July. Uncanny, even, when I finally realize just how much can happen in the course of a year.

Day by day, nothing really changes — yet when you look back, nothing is the same.

It’s a strange thing, time.

And I wonder, to what extent have these past 12 months been spent questioning life in lieu of living it? How many miles have I logged trudging away on a treadmill, rather than an actual path? Comfort or progress?

I don’t quite have an answer yet, and that’s okay.

I just wonder what next July will look like.


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