I just realized that if society truly did collapse I wouldn't last a week in that world. I'd most likely find a way to kill myself. My sanity has been fragile in relatively good times; put me into a situation where real survival is needed? I'm dead.
I've based a large part of my life on escapism and distractions. I'm not much of a producer. I'm not much of a go getter or motivated individual. I see no point in existence most of the time. So the prospect of existing in a world worse than we have right now is a non-ask. I'll choose death. I'm already on the brink of that right now, almost constantly. Only having a respite for short spurts of time.
I see no point in living except to consume and be distracted day in, day out.
Monday, April 27, 2020
Sunday, April 12, 2020
Sidewalk
I wonder if the sidewalks in all small towns are uneven, cracked, and broken. I wonder if all small towns are the same in little ways. Small shops, gas stations, parks. I wonder if the people are the same, living their lives the same. If there is a person just like me, living the same problems as me, in another town. I wonder if that town has the same name as my town. There are 33 Springfields in the US. 27 Milfords. I'm from a Milford. I wonder if there is a version of me in those other Milfords. A version of my family. A version of my friends. A version of my woes and dreams and fears and desires. I wonder if the sidewalk in Milford #14 has cracks and uneven blocks. I wonder if the park in Milford #6 has a stable. I wonder.
I drove by an old sidewalk in one of my old towns. I've lived in several. Not all of them Milfords, not all of them as numerous. I saw myself walking with a friend in our youth. 15 years ago. I'm only 30 so 15 years is a long time. Half my life ago I was on that sidewalk, pockets full of change, headed to the fair. I can't remember what we talked about. Probably school, or girls, or our other friends who weren't there. I was thinking of this girl or that girl I suppose. In High-school all I thought about was girls. Which ones I liked, which ones might like me.
Our feet trod the broken stonework through town. Past the post office and the church. The fire-station and the shitty apartment complex. A dollar store and the ice cream shop with the trolley outside. There wasn't a trolley system in that town. The town was too small but there the trolley sat. I used to eat ice cream in that trolley with my grandmother or my father and my brother. Just depended on the year. We passed it now as the park was right there. Cars were pulling in for the fair and I dumped my pocket of change, $7, on the table for a ticket. The person running the stand just looked at me warily and gave me a ticket. Maybe they stamped my hand too.
I'm looking at my hand. I can see all the stamps from concerts and gatherings, all the big black X's from shows. A marker to show I belonged, to let others know I was admitted and in the case of the X, a youngin'. Something easy to spot for flashlights in the dark when I needed reentry after taking a leak or joining a friend for a smoke or for a breather from the hot close air of the small venue.
But this wasn't a bowling alley basement, this was the park. This was the county fair. This is one night to be a kid but in my mind it was a night to be an adult. I was 15. Not yet a sophomore in High school. One month from school and one last chance to have some fun. Though, how much fun can you really have at a county fair with no extra money, just enough to get in. Sure I could ride the rides, but wasn't I too old for that? I could look for girls but perhaps I was too shy for that.
Instead of feeling like a high-schooler, I felt older. Having gone on my own, with a friend, without my family. I walked that sidewalk, pockets full of change, as a man. With my own plans and my own desires. I wonder if other versions of me felt that way at 15 at that moment, that summer before sophomore year.
I wonder if the others had similar years, of woe and depression. I wonder.
The sidewalk still sits uneven in the dark as I drive away. Holding the memory of those footsteps all those years ago. Feet carrying me forward to a night with my friend, trying to talk to girls, trying to have some fun, trying to act older than we were.
I saw that friend not too long ago. I was going into therapy for my suicidal depression, he was walking out. Said it was for anxiety. We hadn't seen each other in ten years or more. We didn't talk about the fair, or school or our antics as kids. We talked quickly about our lives. Why we needed therapy and how rough things seemed for us both. I haven't talked to him since, but I don't know what I'd talk about with him. Our pasts are long gone and our presents don't intertwine. Our futures might not as well, only time will tell. At least looking back we have that sidewalk.
I wonder if he's thought about that night. If he remembers. If he recalls the times I spent at his house. The times we spent with our other friends. How young we all were and how stupid we all acted. How we thought everything we had was everything we'd ever have.
I wonder.
I drove by an old sidewalk in one of my old towns. I've lived in several. Not all of them Milfords, not all of them as numerous. I saw myself walking with a friend in our youth. 15 years ago. I'm only 30 so 15 years is a long time. Half my life ago I was on that sidewalk, pockets full of change, headed to the fair. I can't remember what we talked about. Probably school, or girls, or our other friends who weren't there. I was thinking of this girl or that girl I suppose. In High-school all I thought about was girls. Which ones I liked, which ones might like me.
Our feet trod the broken stonework through town. Past the post office and the church. The fire-station and the shitty apartment complex. A dollar store and the ice cream shop with the trolley outside. There wasn't a trolley system in that town. The town was too small but there the trolley sat. I used to eat ice cream in that trolley with my grandmother or my father and my brother. Just depended on the year. We passed it now as the park was right there. Cars were pulling in for the fair and I dumped my pocket of change, $7, on the table for a ticket. The person running the stand just looked at me warily and gave me a ticket. Maybe they stamped my hand too.
I'm looking at my hand. I can see all the stamps from concerts and gatherings, all the big black X's from shows. A marker to show I belonged, to let others know I was admitted and in the case of the X, a youngin'. Something easy to spot for flashlights in the dark when I needed reentry after taking a leak or joining a friend for a smoke or for a breather from the hot close air of the small venue.
But this wasn't a bowling alley basement, this was the park. This was the county fair. This is one night to be a kid but in my mind it was a night to be an adult. I was 15. Not yet a sophomore in High school. One month from school and one last chance to have some fun. Though, how much fun can you really have at a county fair with no extra money, just enough to get in. Sure I could ride the rides, but wasn't I too old for that? I could look for girls but perhaps I was too shy for that.
Instead of feeling like a high-schooler, I felt older. Having gone on my own, with a friend, without my family. I walked that sidewalk, pockets full of change, as a man. With my own plans and my own desires. I wonder if other versions of me felt that way at 15 at that moment, that summer before sophomore year.
I wonder if the others had similar years, of woe and depression. I wonder.
The sidewalk still sits uneven in the dark as I drive away. Holding the memory of those footsteps all those years ago. Feet carrying me forward to a night with my friend, trying to talk to girls, trying to have some fun, trying to act older than we were.
I saw that friend not too long ago. I was going into therapy for my suicidal depression, he was walking out. Said it was for anxiety. We hadn't seen each other in ten years or more. We didn't talk about the fair, or school or our antics as kids. We talked quickly about our lives. Why we needed therapy and how rough things seemed for us both. I haven't talked to him since, but I don't know what I'd talk about with him. Our pasts are long gone and our presents don't intertwine. Our futures might not as well, only time will tell. At least looking back we have that sidewalk.
I wonder if he's thought about that night. If he remembers. If he recalls the times I spent at his house. The times we spent with our other friends. How young we all were and how stupid we all acted. How we thought everything we had was everything we'd ever have.
I wonder.
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