A good chunk of time was spent breathing and existing and peeling tattooed skin since the last time I was in this space. I don’t feel too different, but the air around me does. What surrounds me, and most that I used to care for, is now settled on a cloud of cold disinterest.
There was a crisis of self that had somehow been tamed by how I live now. The apartment building I’m now in is a remnant of – I suppose- late 80s suburban development, full of retirees, and not much parking space for fancy locally made electric cars. The compact high-rise abode I had previously cannot compare, not with elevators, shelter for my scooter, and a new metro station mere steps away. I can hear bird songs most mornings now. The smell of lunchtime fish frying reminds me that its a temporary arrangement for me here, but my neighbor’s live here, the old ones would likely die here, and that rarely seen ceremony with burning paper structures I may witness one day again.
Of course, sometimes I leave. The habit of staying at hotels downtown was justified before, since concerts finish late, and taxi fare can get expensive. I can’t make that excuse now, and I do forget those weekends easily, booked often on a whim, on a fleeting desire for relief. The sun I catch on my face on the metro ride home the morning after each stay is very satisfying, it feels like a light pat on the cheek from a familiar hand.
Yes, I’ve been to concerts since live venues opened up again around May last year, but the music I’ve heard and seen performed on stage has lost so much potency, I can see myself stopping completely. It doesn’t help that I’ve always gone myself, and the handful of people I’ve met in the local scene has stayed as just beautiful, welcoming smiles when I do see them, and nothing much more.
This bleak streak stops here. Going back to not eating lunch here at work.