Rant. Against Everything

Evenings are cumbersome affairs- almost like an overly large, unwieldy, brown colored trunk which is left from your schooldays that is stored up in the attic, grimy with dust, handles covered with ropy cobwebs, its insides probably lined with a yellowing newspaper, and smelling as musty as the naphthalene tablets which are undoubtedly there, pervading its insides with that dreary, bone tired stench of sterility.

Come home; throw the bag with its electronic drudgery in one corner of the apartment, change. Shoes in the shoe rack, socks rolled tightly inside them, clothes nicely hanged up in the closet or unwieldily thrown in the laundry basket, open a bottle of beer, and listen to the sounds of the city outside your window, a desiccated murmur which sometimes accelerates into an angry buzz, sometimes recedes into a distant thrum. But never silent. Never ever silent, this city. It emanates a disquiet greater than you could ever imagine, the accreting delusions of a million people vibrating through your lethargic frame, roiled in the very sinews of the buildings you live in, a discontent which feeds your discontent, and feeds on you at the same time. It is a monster city, feeding on your fears, and feeding your fears. This is a city which cradles your dreams softly, croons to them, feeds them the poisoned nectar of its bosom, grooms them, and when they grow up, grabs in them in a ball-crushing grip and never lets go until you scream and whimper and cry and pray for mercy and lay prostrate, ready to abandon everything. But you cannot abandon this city, this emptiness which still will continue to grow inside with, evening after evening, as you grow ever more lethargic, return home every day a little more tired, a little more depressed, a little more soul-sucked. Every day this city will send you off with hope. Every evening it will sandbag you with a force that will throw the everliving shit out of your senses until you are just happy to be alive, and content to face another day.