Limbo
In the short period between breaking up with my boyfriend and settling into a new apartment I’ve experienced every feeling on the emotional spectrum.
I picked up smoking cigarettes again, which could mean something existential but mostly just means another drain on my bank account.
I’ve started, and given up on, three separate books.
In the afternoons and evenings I spend a few hours at the apartment I shared with my ex boyfriend, attempting to pack, using the computer, showering. Nothing seems to change each time I come back. The same beer cans, socks on the floor. A pair of my underwear.
I don’t know how to remove myself from this place.
The hole he punched in the wall the first time we broke up just hangs there, echoing. A piece from a museum or a grave marking.
Here Lies the Beginning of the End.
I feed the cat, the cat eats, the cat disappears out the window.
The deli down the block blew up a few days ago.
Just, exploded.
I walk by the boarded up remains and wonder, “meth lab.”
So instead of there I buy my cigarettes at a smoke shop the same distance away in a different direction.
One night I pay with my card and the guy says he has to charge tax and I say it’s fine and he says it’s still cheaper than the other places and then he says “but you know what they say, cash is king.”
Cash is king.
Each day it feels harder to keep going like this. The air sticks to my skin with a tighter grasp than it did in the beginning. I wander around manhattan, just wander. Put off going anywhere specific. Eat a sandwich in front of a movie theater. It feels good to be aimless. Then sit in the hot apartment, choking, but I can’t leave.
Once a year I change my life drastically only to learn it’s hard being alive no matter what you’re doing. Get scared, jumped into the deep end only to realize I can’t swim, but it’s too late. Time moves one direction. You don’t get younger.
Wander the streets of Manhattan looking for magic. The hot air feels familiar. I remember emotions in my fingertips but it is just remembering.
I remember how to feel passionate but I am not passionate.
So it rains, so I shower, so I sleep in unfamiliar beds. My chest tightens in unfamiliar ways. The air is clouded, I have trouble distinguishing whether or not I am dreaming. Lights change color. I wish for more storms. So here I am. So here I am in limbo, in dreamland where my friends feel like ghosts.
Where my days feel like long, twisted jokes with no punchlines.
Last night I ran into my landlord on the stoop.
She was “just chillin,” her words.
I told her about the break up and she seemed to understand.
Somebody she knew passed by and they chatted for a minute.
Afterwards she told me she was sick of people taking advantage of her.
She said she’s going through so much shit and there’s nobody trying to help her.
She said she’s so tired.
She said at some point, you just realize like, you don’t have anybody. Nobody gives a shit. You’re on your own.
She said the building is going into foreclosure and nobody gives a shit.
I didn’t know the place was going into foreclosure.
I guess it’ll be a condo building soon.