Elsewhere
Sometimes I wonder what use to take stock of the situation, put on paper what I do, what I do. Nobody cares, after all, a life neither better nor worse than the other, sometimes completely anonymous. This step so light that leaves no trace, but so heavy as to be tiring sometimes.
Also, I struggle to find meaning. The internship is almost over now, and start addressing the problem of how to pay this month's rent. I started to work on Sunday, and now three Sundays, including Easter are behind a booth at the Musée d'Orsay. Not just yet, but it is a start. The problem is that I still can not understand what is the beginning.
In fact, when the tightening grip of the bad thoughts I once again unfulfilled total rush and I wonder what am I doing here, we want to do, what is the goal, if this objective is. Loneliness is just around the corner ready to expect from old companion unobtrusive which you have to pay duty from time to time. And then I feel alien to this city, other than those, my friends, to the world. And I would almost go away in a hidden place where being a foreigner really forced to choose between the constant concern of those seeking a bit of socializing, and the knowledgeable and confident self-exclusion. Because if anything I have said I defined or antisocial or misanthropic, truly a voltage to the contrary, very human though surly, through me, and not at all satisfied with the result always somewhere else to live than others who are here with me , unrelated to any place, situation, person.
0 comments:
Post a Comment