I feel empty. Like some kind of receptacle through which fly fleeting memories of moments long gone. I feel disorientated. Walking towards no clear goal, walking in straight lines down boulevards of unknown names. Daytime spent in the illusion of discovery; nights dwelling in the painful drool of what is no longer, gasping for the bleakest signal of human contact, waiting on what never comes, never saves me from myself. That is all I have now. And now even that begins to look at me with disgust in the mirror. That is all I know. And now like a rotten fruit, its very thought is of the vilest nature to me.
All I need is the smallest encounter. Even the most insignificant and the least edifying conversation seems like some golden oasis I desperately wait for. But I can't even walk towards it. The city is a foe. Anonymous I am, anonymous I will stay, until the past resurges in a concrete form to authentify discovery. With no footing, I cannot step through this muck, to the other side of the sewer that some call a road.
I am now of here, but I am not here. I exist, but yet I am invisible. I am a number but not a person. I am not waiting for them to come to me, but some kind of bridge. There is no bridge for now.
Being a number is not enough. That is all that is expected from me. And how does this work?
Red
