(this is an old piece from the time when I was in the right city but wrong house)
There is something to be said for evening skies that look like the Camlin ink spills of my school years, for the breeze of a pedestal fan built from a scratch. I can hear the city moving on the highway, the muffled roar of the city train rolling by. Occasionally a helicopter lands on a helipad in the middle of a park; after all we are close to a hospital. The Internet connection is patchy, always patchy, it breaks every few minutes. A middle-aged man is doing yoga in a park and I see lots of families sitting in the park. The corridors of this building smell like the hidden parts of a bad restaurant. I ask about recycling only to be told 'we don't do that sort of thing here. Don't worry, you don't have to separate'. What if I want to separate? This has started to feel too much like the parts of home I tried to leave behind. I know in two days that this is untenable. I am starting to feel the invisible shackles again. I look and look and look until I hit jackpot. I am mostly moved out but can't afford rent in two places. So I sit, in this dimly lit room, watching the sky turn black, streets lit orange. I have given up frugality for this weekend, my latest splurge is a pillow that I lean against. I can't lie, it feels good. I miss my four pillows. By some magic, Netflix has finally started to work. I need those conversations in the background, the long weekend looms and I find myself wishing for plans and company. This place makes me stand out, not in a good way, but as a malfunctioning misfit. I have done that for too long in this life, I defiantly refuse to do it anymore.
There is something to be said for evening skies that look like the Camlin ink spills of my school years, for the breeze of a pedestal fan built from a scratch. I can hear the city moving on the highway, the muffled roar of the city train rolling by. Occasionally a helicopter lands on a helipad in the middle of a park; after all we are close to a hospital. The Internet connection is patchy, always patchy, it breaks every few minutes. A middle-aged man is doing yoga in a park and I see lots of families sitting in the park. The corridors of this building smell like the hidden parts of a bad restaurant. I ask about recycling only to be told 'we don't do that sort of thing here. Don't worry, you don't have to separate'. What if I want to separate? This has started to feel too much like the parts of home I tried to leave behind. I know in two days that this is untenable. I am starting to feel the invisible shackles again. I look and look and look until I hit jackpot. I am mostly moved out but can't afford rent in two places. So I sit, in this dimly lit room, watching the sky turn black, streets lit orange. I have given up frugality for this weekend, my latest splurge is a pillow that I lean against. I can't lie, it feels good. I miss my four pillows. By some magic, Netflix has finally started to work. I need those conversations in the background, the long weekend looms and I find myself wishing for plans and company. This place makes me stand out, not in a good way, but as a malfunctioning misfit. I have done that for too long in this life, I defiantly refuse to do it anymore.
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