what if this is not just a passing phase?
enough brave moments of unreality can turn awe into a joyful normalcy.
yes, the slumber of the west is a testament to our success, a sleepy-eyed propulsion through these fluorescent days.
but my heart pumps at such a lumbering pace that i almost forget to wake. the windows are wide but the cigarette streets ash in my eyes, and these watering holes don’t seem to hold me anymore.
children of Narcissus, aren’t we meant for more than this? we’re kissing the mirror in this reflected dream, while in the bedroom corner, Dorian curates our lives on the screen.
i sound thankless.
i verge on the edge of hypocrisy.
i fear that i am a tourist and all of this is just egoism and photography.
but i might try to break free from this faded reverie. the gutter holds more beauty than even the most inspired of tv screens. and anyway – all these words are rendered useless once i push open these city gates, a new language to strip my vanity and a new land to put me in my place.