forks and knives

Dammit Zach Condon, you make me feel all drowsy and European. I am lying under the covers of my bed, still dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, but In The Mausoleum is sapping all my energy. I don’t want to move.
“Berlin is so ugly in the morning light,” he sings. Is that true? When you wake up, shaking off the glory of the previous night, any city is ugly. Every city is its own story, whether stained with crime and corruption or lifted with culture. But there’s always a time in the day in any city where you feel a deep, crushing melancholy. In New York, it’s around four in the afternoon, when you realize you haven’t done anything but walk around all day hoping to find something unique and exciting, but instead your feet are sore and the bum across the subway car is mumbling rambling phrases to yourself. In Paris, it’s about midnight (or the first time you walk into Notre Dame), you realize how insignificant, how small you are. In new Orleans it’s a bit after four in the morning, when you trudge back to your hotel room and pass the people cleaning up from the night’s festivities.
I embrace the melancholy.
“it’s been a long time since I’ve seen you smile and put away my fright to thse morning light”
I felt the melancholy today, about five minutes into my art class. I sat there, staring at the squid scratched into the zinc, and wondered about truths of our existence.
It is painful to think about those sorts of things, isn’t it? It makes you feel so small, so insignificant and tiny. I occasionally find myself crying when thinking those things, but I do it anyway because I would like to know, kind of. I think it would terrify me, drive me crazy if I knew, but I am insatiable in my thirst for knowledge.

Thank you, Flying Club Cup, for helping me deal with these mental processes. It’s been a while since I’ve just freewritten like this.
‘night.