I don’t think that I should be writing right now. It’s extremely late, the latest I’ve stayed up in quite some time, honestly. Furthermore, my hair has been thinning. Something that I didn’t think I would need to worry about–but now I have to. This is something that really irks me about life, you’re sometimes just reminded of it in the worst way possible. The way it can be so finite, and your existence so nominal, so as to remind you how painfully human you are.

I was on the train earlier tonight, a late train ride with so many souls going somewhere. I do enjoy that about the city, a lot. How it’s just all this commotion of existence going all over. You remember how small your own life is, because of how small and quiet everyone else’s is. It’s comforting and extremely unsettling. I can never get used to it, and I’ve been taking the train to and from places for so many years of my life now.

I think what made it so tough is that I can’t get used to where I’m at. Shouldn’t I be further in life, more established, more secure? The want piercing me to its core. I sometimes wonder, “Am I just this fundamentally flawed?” I don’t get it, I never have been able to get it. I wear my sweaters that look like carpeting in a senior home, I eat my food that’s long gone cold, and I sit in silence.

As a species we’ve gone away with quietness. Our ears and eyes permanently influenced by the internet. Me too, I guess. I don’t even write on sheets of paper anymore; my handwriting, and it’s penmanship, a sign of something antiquated.

That’s how I feel, antiquated.

Nothing that I am doing is working, nothing that I currently am is resulting. I wanted to cry on that train, the silence tearing into all that I am, a deep bellowing sadness from below. Have I just been standing here this whole time? Like a photograph of a really dull scene. A refrigerator chilling beer cans and bread.