You wanna know what’s sad? I’ll tell you what’s sad.
It’s sad knowing that your cosmic twin, thirty years younger and fifty pounds lighter, is
sitting in an apartment in a giant, never sleeping city
feeling just as alone and isolated as you are, but she
still has hope. She thinks she’s jaded, but she’s not. She thinks she’s weary, but
she doesn’t know yet of the soul-crushing exhaustion of chronic empty bank accounts and crummy lovers and shitty food
She has no idea what despair is, and that’s a good thing because her still pure soul would disappear with the realization that nobody cares. Not really.
Imma tell that girl, my cosmic twin, to make friends with her isolation because it’s gonna be there for good. Imma tell her that despair isn’t so bad when it’s a catalyst. Broken dreams pave the way to reality. Imma tell her to drink the good booze when she’s flush and the shitty stuff when she’s broke.
I know she won’t listen, because she holds out hope that it gets better. She has to believe it gets better, otherwise, she will shatter into a million pieces, maybe end up pushing a grocery cart and feeding pigeons with the crumbs in her homemade dreads, drinking buzzballs, collapsing into a heap in the park.
keeps the kitties in kibble and me in tacos
Wondering where the dream went.
If she’s lucky, she will claw her way out to the other side and sit under a bare bulb over the kitchen table, thinking about her younger cosmic twin just starting out, sipping a fine microbrew and sending not good vibes but survival vibes.