On the next plane

Call me a glutton for punishment. Some delusional Don Quixote knight in rusty armor, but being here, now, the beginning of what should be summer, I’m saying things I shouldn’t say, and doing things I shouldn’t do. It’s hard. You manage trying to humanize envy. Give volume and feeling to emptiness. Make something fleeting and ethereal an ever lasting monument to your tainted past and doomed future.

This city does that. You’re either alone, grasping and flailing for the first thing to come along to relieve that loneliness, filling in the blanks that you know they’re missing. Sticking words like “great” and “amazing” over “just ok” or “second best” like a sticky label over a botched address hoping that the smile that washes over their complacent faces is enough to get you through the day.

Or you stick yourself in the middle of retarded social scenes and circles. Where everyone has a nickname and speaks in broken codes. Where words get shortened for no reason, and people talk like text messages just to make conversation all the more brief. That’s not what they’re there for anyway. You can hear the credit cards tapping on the glass topped tables separating lines of the main event. You can hear the ice tumble as it melts in rocks glasses waiting to be refilled. Accompanied by the quick tapping foot of someone impatient to be intoxicated. Annoyed heads whip around for a waitress. By the end of nights like these, you say things like “we have an amazing connection” or “Me and that guy have been tight forever” into the air, like magic incantations. Attempting to conjure up something real. Credit cards won’t work due to all the abundance of coke residue. Gravity won’t work due to all the vodka. All you have is a bunch of unpaid tabs and sprawled out drunks.

Into to the air you’ll hear “I love this place, it’s a really good scene.” in no direction in particular. echoing between the DJ booth and the bar. the hollow spaces people put between themselves and the world.

More abracadabras. More hocus pocus.

You won’t. Until you’re there, in that moment. Until you can be loved and supported, there might as well not even be a ‘here’.

here, the only “real world” is the big brother house. this manchester. this nightmare city.
So I’m leaving. Again. To find something. There used to be a here for me. And falling from it, I don’t think I have enough time to stack enough women to climb back up there.

Maybe I need to be somewhere else.

I think I’m going to Greece for a week or two. To chase as many skirts as I goddamn please. At least there they have a tan.

~ by Nicholas P. Mitchell on July 11, 2007.