The rain illuminated by the candy colored neon signs buzzing in the bleak rain softened the horizon as I hefted my weary over worked, over worn body across the puddled concrete, cold under feet, soulless – the city I once knew and loved so well, gone to anything but a fading façade – a mask painted over a million times in order to look like the city I once lived in, but now something was amiss, something was lacking – the soul… this city, I swear, once had some soul, perhaps not a bustling never sleeping soul like New York, but it had soul… it had character…. But somewhere, at some point in my delirium and distracted state of post exodus from paradise, it had vanished, the streets and buildings propped up like it had wooden planks behind them like so many old Hollywood movie sets.
My feet pounded the ground, each step weighed and stomped down with the force of 100 previous footsteps, as I had previously in my life, walked on the balls of my feet, with passion bursting from my belly, from my diaphragm, my insides now felt like the empty vessels that surrounded me. I wondered what had happened, it was like waking from a long coma, you suddenly find yourself in seemingly familiar settings, but nothing actually fits – nothing seems like it used to. Was this growing older? Possibly… however this seemed deeper, more sinister, and sadder. I have lived a thousand lives, each one a loving glow in my breast plate… each one a lifetime on its own, its own energy, its own lust, its own anima – now inside there was nothing but wonder and bewilderment. Where were the lives I knew? Where was the new one? Had I run out of lives, like some strange artists form of 9 lives? A hipster walked by wearing horn rimmed glasses, dark black t-shirt with a picture of a Rubik’s cube on it, running shoes with dark jeans shrink wrapped around his pale skinny legs; his jacket was an old German military jacket, his hair balding in spots and long in other like he hadn’t the faintest clue what he wanted to do with it, or cared… oh you modern hipsters, so blatantly self-aware even behind your irreverent façade – another zombie in the land of the walking dead. Pretty girls in heels and short skirts, underneath thick black nylons, ruining the whole get up – it irritates me so, just another thing to have to tear off in hot passionate back alley sexcapades – oh but only if I had the spark, the motivation, the impulse, rather than some flimsy reminder to glory days gone by. I’m not this old, I think to myself, I’m still in my prime – but what is this bleakness? Where did it come from? Where are my desires? Where have they gone?
The sad tragic tale of a life lived to its fullest only to find perhaps I was meant to die young in some fiery car crash and become an immortal art god – that I missed that turn somehow, that something had gone astray – that being kicked out of paradise isn’t so great after all – one boredom just preceded a more dismal boredom.
Where were all the mad poets? The souls burning with raw emotional and passionate power? When did the lights grow dim? And was I in purgatory? Or is this just the tragic decay of society rotting from the inside? I am the world; watch my skin start to peel.