Second non-musical interlude
There were days when no aspect of your life was off limits. They were days when your experience hadn't amounted to much or it just hadn't seeped into your being long enough to make a difference to your own opinion of yourself.
The trajectory of my life was laid frigteningly bare for introspection. I inspected my palms as it is my nervous habit to do and fancied they accurately delineated the course I'd taken since graduation: the jobs, the lovers, the loves, the friends lost, the trips taken, the great pains taken. These last two years have almost killed me so many times. The last ten years have almost killed me so many more times. Thus is life.
I start to feel my heart rate racing. Again. I hate it when it does that.
"The world is not enough!" I proclaim emphatically in my own head. Tragic words from a shallow blockbuster, but overwhelmingly true in the context of one person's desire to get away and finding nowhere quite far enough. The key concept is that of: enough.
The only thing to give away my thoughts is the anxious tossing aside of my newspaper. As a child I saw people in movies hold folded newspapers to their faces as a coffee cup precariously balanced in another hand. Later on, I saw these real people absorbed in various magazines and periodicals resulting in everyone knowing the exact same bit of knowledge by lunchtime. And now this is me, sucked into the professional machine of metered existence. And all I can do to save my sanity is fancy myself some kind of Jane Bond. But its true... its too tragically true that the world is simply not enough.
The trajectory of my life was laid frigteningly bare for introspection. I inspected my palms as it is my nervous habit to do and fancied they accurately delineated the course I'd taken since graduation: the jobs, the lovers, the loves, the friends lost, the trips taken, the great pains taken. These last two years have almost killed me so many times. The last ten years have almost killed me so many more times. Thus is life.
I start to feel my heart rate racing. Again. I hate it when it does that.
"The world is not enough!" I proclaim emphatically in my own head. Tragic words from a shallow blockbuster, but overwhelmingly true in the context of one person's desire to get away and finding nowhere quite far enough. The key concept is that of: enough.
The only thing to give away my thoughts is the anxious tossing aside of my newspaper. As a child I saw people in movies hold folded newspapers to their faces as a coffee cup precariously balanced in another hand. Later on, I saw these real people absorbed in various magazines and periodicals resulting in everyone knowing the exact same bit of knowledge by lunchtime. And now this is me, sucked into the professional machine of metered existence. And all I can do to save my sanity is fancy myself some kind of Jane Bond. But its true... its too tragically true that the world is simply not enough.
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