Visit the places you’d like to call home someday. Sit in a thin kitchen as cool and comfortable as a toaster. Watch the construction workers rest but remain in motion.
While you’re at it, be gracious, be kind, and tell the soft, friendly features on the other side of the table that you’re glad they’re doing so well.
Someone could then be fearlessly romantic about being dedicated to telling us what all of those things really mean. They would write big, stupid stories, and at least some of us would envy how they write, and have no noticeable fucks to give about the snide things we would probably say.
And you would remember when that paper wanted to embrace a slow news day, by talking to you about the thing you came up with that a magazine published.
Then you would try to make sense of all the miles you wasted on thinking that at least some parts of what your good luck amounted to were going to hold out forever.
And just for the hell of it, you would stop being so resentful for just a couple of minutes.
Getting back to reality gets you back to suddenly wanting to fly right the fuck out of that kitchen. Away from the places you only ever get to visit.
But you don’t want to go back home either.
It’d be a lot nicer to have the freedom of an empty space too large to notice little ol’ you.
Something with arrogant, desolate spectacle, and the idea that it would take the rest of your life, to find people who could play new characters in the new mistakes you would eventually get around to making.
But you’re probably just going to go back home.
Eventually, there’s going to be another birthday that you’re going to have to deal with.
People everywhere have the deliriously high hopes of expecting you to be around for that.