existential crisis, you wake up alone, in a vast home filled with books and a ghost that won't let you rest, light pours through glass, it's a beautiful day, blue skies, the sound of children laughing, the sound of birds, it's spring isn't it? you lay there breathing in, your chest heavy and tight, your still tired but you need to drag yourself out and to the shower.
usually this is never a problem but this morning your body feels like it's lead and sluggish lethargy races through your blood stream like a toxic antidote to a depression you never saw coming. the water is hot and the room quickly fills with steam, and you slide down a wall sitting in the shower stream wondering how you face the day. you dress in your new respectable look, beige pants and a nondescript top. you take the dog for a walk, you wander the streets looking at the homes and families, the stationary cars, the gardens and the fences of suburbia, you think about suede and how they capture a truly english sound, those lyrics are so english, capturing a period you missed in england, you were here experiencing the sydney equivilent, which was never quite as authentic in execution. there were no soundtracks, nothing really came close, save for the church, the rest were very poor imitations of something that had a tradition. the thought leaves you and you turn homwards.
driving to work you think about the women in your life, the ones you love, how they have all offerred you themselves, how they love you, and how some don't, you smile slightly remembering some, wondering about the women i forgot, one day they will come back to me, one day they will reappear. i wonder if i am lost to them, i'd hate that, i would hope that they remember me, and they feel that they were loved.