Chasing Indifferent City Urges

“It is useless to write new realistic novels. We generally know where we stand in relation to reality and don’t care to know any more.” Michel Houellebecq

Wasting time staring at screens instead of someone’s eyes; keeping distance instead of getting closer and the endless muteness in the repetitive blurred air that spoke the wrong words; Everything I was writing about was a cliché, such as the society full of fake images thinking wealth and beauty looked so good together. Counting days and hours to finish a hateful job, to meet with a distant soul and go out drinking with strangers; day by day, year after year until we got to the end of this life, emptied out of our essence, remembering vague moments of a dream, composed moments of pleasure and too much time spent looking away.

I looked down on people without values, I was probably one of them – chasing feelings was as vain as chasing gold. The mere sound of a false escape was the ultimate weakness – thoughts wandering in and out, coming back with misinterpreted visions of reliving past in the future and failing consistently with the sensation of an all-consuming emptiness. The slow degradation of our bodies, our careers and humanity was increasing rapidly, too rapid to catch any youthful faces leading a lazy, shame-filled, carefree life.

Suddenly all the pointlessness and indifference of the city turned around and disclosed the compelling, unnecessary urge to live and stay awake for as long as I could to see deeper into the obscurity of this so-called civilization, the lost small and great souls looking at one another, clueless to the withheld future from them – I kept seeing things, some of them might have not been there at all, but I saw them as clearly as I saw my own soul among them.

2 thoughts on “Chasing Indifferent City Urges

  1. Sometimes I read your pieces and I feel a sense of guarded happiness to know someone else feels the way I feel and can articulate it … this piece makes me feel like everything is being kept at arm’s length. Why is another thing altogether and mostly irrelevant, the person we are now is what matters…and of course, who we will become. Where we will go and with who or who we will be when we get there. I never read anything by you and feel like it’s just words, let alone a cliche’ …. you’re Real. You’re someone who knows what you feel even if you might puzzle about what it means. There’s that kid’s book, “The Missing Piece Meets the Big O”… I am reminded of that a little here…and a song by the Pixies about being lost in a crowd …
    But then again, happiness produces not poetry but … well, shit, I dunno. But poetry is the dialect of the displaced. The ones who are here in body but searching for something bigger, something that either fills the hole or erases the knowledge of it. I’ve been drinking, so maybe I’m reading too much into this or projecting too much of myself into this.
    But it’s as significant a piece as your others.
    And I want to read more of your stuff…!!!
    You have my contact info.
    Maybe we can chat for real one day.
    I need sleep, I have a photo shoot at 1pm and its 8:56am.
    Take care, you.

  2. Thank you once again, John. The fact that you feel close to my writing (a.k.a soul) keeps me going and I need to keep going! “You’re someone who knows what you feel even if you might puzzle about what it means. ” — This is so true and if you have been able to understand that makes it so special too.
    I like the projections you have into my writings and I like that you had been drinking – I absolutely approve! After all we are “the ones who are here in body but searching for something bigger.”

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