the_life.pdf
I’m sitting on a park bench across the street from the place I used to grab lunch. I can’t afford it now. There isn’t much seating inside anyway. I remember the routine… order it to go and sit here. The leaves are a different color now. The bark is marred with initials, like the bench. I haven’t added mine, maybe I should. The branches creak overhead as I pull out an old apartment key. The cut comes out ragged. I mark an X. A crow nearby yells down at me.
I’ve never really sat here without a phone. I’m usually glued to the screen, like everyone else around me. I used to keep a short list to recalibrate. It’s embarrassing. I forget it already… just some bullshit to get through the day.
I’ve never fed the pigeons, maybe I should now. Like the old people who come to the park. Sitting here, I feel like I’m jumping ahead fifty years. I get why they sit now. Losing my job feels like the best thing that’s ever happened to me. But this city makes me tired. It isn’t about escape. Walls feel taller at every corner of the park. The trees are wet and growing darker. There’s nothing to watch, but there’s a lot going on. Feels like things are turning.
At the corner, I check over my shoulder. Maybe it’s just me, but I feel watched. I don’t test it. I don’t care to find out. The light changes. Bus brakes sigh. By the time it exhales, I’m out of the city. I still carry the usual fear and doubt. I keep the door latched. It’s all self-medication. Letting someone in might help. There aren’t many I can trust. I’m not asking for a fix. If there’s a log somewhere listening to this, I’m telling you all that I can. No other story to tell. There isn’t an easy version. Decide, then keep deciding, until the decision is just the day. Otherwise nothing moves.
Note: Handwritten text recovered from the abandoned mini-storage unit at the train station. Text was written on the backside of a weathered paper copy of a lease agreement. A positive handwriting match.