I’m the hero of this story, I don’t need to be saved.
Openings, closings; keys turning inside locks, echoing in the staircase.
Walking around Midtown in the evening is depressing. Suit jackets and tight skirts, silk blouses and harried cell phone conversations. Grabbing your dress tight around your thighs as you fall into a cab, running across town, uptown. Who am I? I am not this.
I’m so done with New York. I feel it in my bones.
No one’s got it all.
I’m skinnier. I’m unhealthy. There are swollen bronchial tubes in my lungs and I fall asleep too easily. The skin beneath my eyes are dry. I’m lost. I’m uninspired — well, that’s a lie. I’m restless, but when aren’t I? Where are my friends? Where is my life?
I am blocking myself. I think I know this, too. Stop. Break free. Stop doing this to yourself.
