It's the beginning of December,
which means that I haven't written anything in 2 months.
By now I've realized that if I don't write for awhile, my speech pattern
starts to deteriorate, and I forget to enunciate words and everything that comes out of my mouth is just garble + half thoughts + falling sentences and ends with a ...
My family are usually the first to point it out to me, "What?" "What are you saying?" "Are you speaking?"
So here I am... ready to ramble.
I've been taking the train to D.C. to visit. The past couple of times, I've fallen asleep. No one ever bothers to wake me, and so when I wake up the train is deserted. It's a really disconcerting feeling, being left behind.. and I always shake awake with mild panic of apocalypse or ghosts or my life was a dream.
It had bothered me that people wouldn't take the time to wake someone, but then maybe they think they're being polite, or maybe it's concern that the sleeping girl is actually dead, and it'd be so messy to have to deal with a corpse and who wants to bother with that.
Thoughts like that have made the city has seemed less charming to me. It's hard to explain, but there's an essay 'goodbye to all that' by didion that describes it so well. There's a part where she says that New York is like a playground, a fantasy world - and how can one "live" in a playground, one is merely 'staying'.
And it's true, only with new york magic could a couch be a bedroom, that curtains are walls, a 4th floor walk-up is fun (saves money for a gym), the mice that run along the floor are pets, a hotdog and pretzel is a meal, and chicken with rice may as well be a banquet dinner.
Not that there haven't been beautiful things either - 5th avenue, Times Square electricity, ballet sequins, chinatown egg tarts and milk tea...
I wouldn't say that I'm getting jaded, but I think the Pollyanna in me has gone somewhere else to live.