A Place Called Home

I'm getting worried now. It's 4 days till move out, and I dont have a place to live. And it seems utterly painful to sleep on someone's couch. There's just something so vulnerable about it. I need my very own place to retreat to.

I hope something works out. I'd almost rather be homeless than knocking on the doors of friends and family for help. I'm just too god damn proud for my own good I guess.

But everyone needs something in this world to hold onto. Mine is my independance. I need to not need. To live just fine on my own.

I told someone today I try and make my writing simple but profound.

I wonder if I do.

I hope I do.

So... I will give you the example of what I told him.

I could write something like this,

"I've come to know all that which New York has to offer it's inhabitants and passionate travelers. And over time, I've watched the painted glamour peel off slowly to reveal grit and grime. And imperfections in what was once impervious and immaculate."

But instead, I prefer this,

"I've lived in New York for most of my life. And I've seen a lot. And in that time, I learned this. New York will fuck you."

Sometimes, I wonder why I live here. And why I write this stuff down.

But the hope that one other person out there is reading this and feeling some solice in another person thinking the same thing. Feeling the same way. Maybe even feeling a little better.

Well, that seems a good reason.