2026-03-25

"I only took, not knowing to give back. Already half-read, you loved me steadily, never holding back."

 "The books I keep are empty coffins; seashells"

*

I miss the old me. The guy that was up for anything, everything. Who read books. Watched movies. Cared about life. Gave a care about anything.

I used to read. I went to the cinema. I pulled folk into going to plays. I don't care anymore.

*

Maybe it's age. Perhaps it's just how the world is. It may just be me. 

*

I'm slowly packing up my life. I get to move out of my place no later than 8/14 of this year. It still amazes me that I've lived in NY for seven, sorry, NINE years now. Six or seven or so in Upstate NY. Ugh. 

I hate it all. I'm 50 years old and I feel like I'm 12. Or 21. Or 34. I knew I was finally hitting the old bones stage when I was running down the stairs on 42nd to catch the train and had the New York Minute, where no one was around, and yes, I took that slide that probably should have broken my neck. I caught myself on the rail, looked up to realize there was no one behind me, in front of me, and I just shuffled myself off and carried on. 

I sat down on the train and sighed. I do not miss Penn Station.