Give me the unadulterated joy of the bad dancer who thinks he’s killing it, and bestow upon me the joyous pity everyone feels for him. That is humanity in its best form.
See it in the eyes of the sleepless, and see it in the eyes of the daydreaming. There is a yearning for lost time. There is an ambition I have not found. I have a passion for the things which do not advance me, and I disdain work for work’s sake. I disdain the systematization of my life, the folders under lock and key holding my name somewhere, out there, across the world of archives and cold numbers and alphabetizations. And what other faceless names is mine among?
I brush by people wordlessly on the street and take my place in line at the gas station and at fast food drive-thrus, and I take my place in line at the bank. Transactions of no warmth. Advancing the great flow of currency along. I exchange my humanity for the convenience of capitalism. And it feels good, on some superficial level I can’t deny myself. It brightens my day sometimes to have discovered a product I love newly repackaged in bright primary colors, simplified, made new again.
I cannot find myself but through others. But I barely believe they even exist, they matter. Please, don’t sell me anything. A friend is a friend drunken to see you wild, unencumbered, in reverie at having disinterred the real you at last.
I am searching for that friend behind the skyline of some city far away from here.