Old

Since I have nothing original to write at the moment and I don't want to leave this empty after creation, I'll take from my notebook and throw up a bit of old writing. Pardon the slightly depressing overtone of the first paragraph. This did not exactly come from my happiest mood.

Thurs, Oct 30 21:19
The faux-seclusion of the city is romanticized in my mind. On these streets, many people see me. Their eyes never meet mine - I am an object to be avoided. I become that object people see me as. My identity is erased. I find solace and comfort in the lack of embrace this city gives me. Neglect is the true escapism.

As I listen to the songs of the different performers along the river, I try to imagine their stories. A man and his two sons sing "Amazing Grace." Does the mother have dinner waiting on them when they walk home from the bus station? I can only imagine the best for these people. Is it because they find such happiness in what they do? The old man in the second-hand clothing singing along to upbeat music from his friend with the acoustic guitar. How does he respond when you ask how he is doing? He can't complain. Can I?
~21:33