wicker park

the smell of freshly used books lines my head distracting me as i try to stare, however blankly at the page in front of me, watching dully as words blend into sentences, paragraphs. god, who cares. i shift, uncomfortably and yet, oh so affectionately in the old dusty chair below me. my shoes are cast off, my feet deepening within the old rug. i want to stay here forever, among these carefully bound thoughts.

i sigh. get up. walk over. glance. i should be studying, but descartes memoirs surprisingly seem interesting. thumbing the worn pages, i laugh at myself. yeah. right. that would never happen.

i feel so trapped. angered. desperate for some kind of change, some kind of freedom.

surrendering my hopes for any chapter read, i pick up my things and cross the busy street. the sounds, the smells, the smoke, all such a welcome alternative from lazy and plaintive suburbia. i walk back to the train. too bemused by my own thoughts to notice the two men staring at me from across the subway's narrow passageway.

such longing.

such loneliness.

recently, really, i have been realizing how dull my life has become. subdued by passive and placid administration, rules, grades, culture gods. i hate the way i don't think. the way i sit and let the world go by following direction like some pathetic lamb. and. for lack of better analogy, i am being lead away from any individualistic desire or hope. instead, i am headed towards green pastures and still waters.

shit

"It's like forgetting the words to your favorite song
You can't believe it
You were always singing along
It was so easy and the words so sweet
You can't remember
You try to feel the beat"