I'm nothing, I'm only a voice in my head, a disaster in disguise. A reflection of an expectation of an abstraction of a clone an ideal of myself, a parody, a cliche, a perfect cliche.
I'm not sure how or when it happened, but I think it happened. I think it happened because if I think back on it, it sounds like things that cannot possibly be real. I'm thinking of stairs each painted a different rainbow color, black and white cowboy movie projected on a wall, vodka cranberry drinks and glances sharp and weighted with unspoken desires, conversations on a rooftop garden and if I look up, I can see stars, and if I look to the distance, I can see the wreckage and the rubble of the World Trade Center site. If I look towards a fence so easily taken down and stepped around, if I walk into this hidden little area, and fuck, this reminds me of a movie the name I can't remember, or maybe a book, but this woman, this big big woman steps out in her floor length goth vampire gown, or at least that's what my mind registers and she tells me that I can't be there right now and I nod and agree and outside a boy is hanging off the edge of the outside rail and we laugh but maybe the laughter has a hint of the nervous, or maybe it's anticipation of something more.
I'm thinking of sunlight and warmth like it's summer, and everywhere people are walking around with bare legs and bare arms and just a few days ago it was still coat and scarf weather. This "bipolar" New York weather that people don't stop talking about, but I guess it's something you have to talk about, you know, it hangs in the air, like this vicious wind that flips red umbrellas upside down or sideways rain soaking clothes you took such care to prepare for the weather. But then, then the sun bathing over Union Square where all the benches are taken, and although technically, the grass area isn't quite open, and I have to climb over the fence (slightly precarious in short skirts and flats and a slightly oversized bag) to sit on it, it's filled with people, napping and reading books, sitting in a circle and playing guitar and singing songs. Songs with lyrics the boy makes up on the spot, lyrics that are silly and irrelevant and oh so funny. And in a minute, I blink, and the boy has a snake around his head, he sings about the terrifying snake on his head, and it's so funny, so so funny and I laugh and people around me start watching and laughing and the boy notices and sings about us, too, the watchers.
I'm thinking of...sleep deprivation and late nights that fade into mornings and I don't realize what time it is or what happened (but it's not even so much a black out I can't remember what happened as the concept of time itself that is so elusive, it might as well have never existed.) I'm thinking of this glowing laptop screen that circles my life back into this notion.
I'm thinking of my camera and how it works its magic, despite a semi-broken, nonexistent lens protector, despite dropping it on hard pavement (after Of Montreal for the fifth time but this time it's a setlist I don't adore, this time it's always the drunk obnoxious over aged couple who guards and pushes with drunken angry glares at our side) and stairs (stairs of a home that is so far away and seemingly so long ago) and its inability to zoom, how it molds life into something else, this alternate reality and world where everything is focused where it should be, where scenes are selectively cropped, where insignificant objects become the center of attention and suddenly so, so beautiful.
I'm thinking, that I shouldn't do so much thinking. An article somewhere, some inspirational piece tells me that everything, every source of unhappiness is self created and sure, that's perfectly accurate, but how do you stop? How do you make the imagination die and the voice inside the head stop talking and instead only live in "the moment" and what is that, even what is a moment worth if it can't be remembered, chewed over, the bad parts glossed over (or maybe lingered too long) the sparkling gems in it cut brighter and tighter, framed and re-presented? These moments are what we make of them, after all. And it's so easy to dismiss it as a day in the life, and none of it really matters in the long run, of course not.
But who cares, who cares because this is being alive, this is feeding off the moments and details and the poetry in the rain and the bright bow headbands and poetry revealed after Photoshop and certain lines from certain songs that change absolutely everything. This is about april showers and soon it'll be may flowers, and after that, well after that, things are inconcievable. But they're always before they happen, and they always seem so after.
In the meanwhile I have this pulse, I have two hands and these half blind eyes, I have these words and images and memories that I turn into something else. In the meanwhile I have this life.