A Human Condition


I don’t like cities because they smell like piss and shit and vomit. The walls of buildings envelop you, you can’t see past them and the dirty concrete doesn’t give a fuck. The people don’t care either. You become another credit card number in a small apartment drinking Starbucks and eating McDonalds. Corporate America fucking you at the speed of light while you struggle to maintain your conscience after your third mid day drink, ripping that eighth bong hit, at your job, at school, walking the streets, or worse, driving them, the beds of the homeless. Watching the junkies have conversations with the walls because of the crack and heroin and warfare of every day. Nothing and no one is comfortably familiar. The city swallows you and you burn in the stomach acid of human induced pollution. You smell flowers on a stand and thank the universe for that whiff of fresh air. You see a tree and remember that those are kind of important to your survival. You connect to the branches and leaves stronger than the human being with the perfect legs accentuated by the high heels, lowlight, highlight, blonde hair with the Gucci bag that just walked out of the biggest Macy’s in the world reeking of consumerism and Armani Exchange. You smile and get no response from the human but the leaves on the tree rustle behind her in what wind makes it through the maze of brick and concrete. 8th street, Broadway, Chinatown. What’s the difference when you can’t even see the sun until it gets up over the buildings. No horizon, only the up, up, up of floors and stories and brick and mortar. Down and down are the cigarette butts and grime and feigning bodies of rags and withdrawal. Open toed high heels kicking up the dust of abandonment and apathy left beneath the bench where someone died the night before over ninety dollars and a broken deal.

Then you meet the lead singer of your favorite band at a free art show gallery and you touch his skin and shake hands with his wife and show him 1,500 dollars worth of free advertisement and 48 hours worth of your life for his “day job” that he doesn’t want talk about and you realize how very unspecial you are in a world of fans and people with talent that fawn over him every day and you won’t be remembered. And neither will they. Neither will any of us. And yet he is and he will be. And you love him and wish him eternal happiness and bliss beyond measure. Metal. Sexual appetite. Ache. And you think how fleeting that moment is and how you don’t have enough time and you think of the people who love you the most and you hate yourself for ever being disappointed because everything you’ve ever wanted you have and you’re getting and you’re so lucky you could die right there in the middle of a city that you hate touching a member of band who’s music has influenced the very person that you are and you wonder how you got there. How you got anywhere.

Then you hit rush hour both ways on a trip that you’ll be making 5 days straight and you realize that traffic is the only hell that exists and that 270 is the devil and you realize why so many people are miserable every day because you felt it sitting there standstill in a hot car sweating and cussing, wondering why you do anything in life ever, and then hating yourself because you feel miserable in the current situation when there are children out there, shriveled and bloated like raisins with no clean water to drink as vultures are ready to shred their little bodies to blood and wine. And then you think about wine and how the trip you are making is to go to a school to know how to better serve people the one substance that makes you feel invincible and like the biggest piece of shit all at the same time and you wonder if money was the reason you were born. If money is the reason for everything. And how pieces of paper control the world. And then you just feel weird.

And then stupid.

And then traffic moves and you scream fuck at the top of your lungs and keep driving.


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