not enough

i read my wonderful beee's journal, and oh god, i smell dry air and sweat and somewhere far away.  and god, i long for something to happen.  i feel silent here.  this place, this way of living, it seems to negate humanity, that rare, raw, beautiful, flesh ripping struggle, and sinks down into ennui.  ennui is the perfect, perfect description for this revolting town. in summer, it hovers in the huge blue sky, in the perfect streets with seventies architecture and organised garbage bins.  it infuses all of us, from one body sprawled on a couch to another, one set of minds all vacant, moving from one mildly amusing you tube clip to another. 

we are hungry, but all we eat is rice.  we are rich, so so so rich and yet, we pour out our spare change and look at it, desperate and frustrated after spending every cent on shit we don't want.  the big leaves on the lines of maple trees, eurocentric invaders, are still green, and heavy, and everything moves slow. when it rains, people pull faces at the inconvenience.  my shoes i bought cheap leaked walking to yoga, and there were little ponds in there, and there was something wonderful about how cold and wrinkly my toes were.  but that was about as alive as i felt, cold rain on my calf muscle as the rest of me is under an umbrella and i rush towards the shops, towards the things-i-do-not-need.

i go, shop to shop, pausing over more books more books more more, you don't understand, i need them all i need to consume them i need them like a second skin, because THEY are the only things that make me feel alive, that and fucking, and my pets, and that occasional moment of awareness i get.   i tie my hands behind my back, and buy too much food, and plan meals instead, because it stops me buying to ease the ennui.  i pause and lightly finger stores, items, the ground, an icecream that will make me feel slightly sick. i walk, my shoes squelching, my skin on my feet folding in.

when i wake up, i feel like my dreams were more real than this automation is.  there is no strong pungent odour that makes me feel something real, and there is no drive under my skin making me catch my breath with the beauty of it all. there is just one step after another. it's not calm, or dramatic, or anything at all. it's not a peaceful sort of quietness, it's just that pause before something happens. only, only nothing actually does.