I spend most of my time torn between wanting coolness and productivity and nonchalance and things that my family can tell the neighbors to make it seem like I’m on the right track in life, but then I’m waiting for the train and I feel everything all at once, or I’m in the basement in my socks finding poetry in a goddamn laundromat, and I don’t know where to find the “me” in any of this. What’s okay and what’s not, what I’ll regret and what I won’t, and why the things I love embarrass me so much and why passion makes me feel vulnerable and red in the face when passion is the only thing that fucking matters in this world. I just feel cheap under the amber of these streetlights, exposed in the face of the fluorescence of these headlights, and all I can do is keep walking. Keep making eyes with strangers trying to find the human in them all, trying to understand what it is about humanity that makes me love it so much when we all have every reason not to- maybe I’ve just never cared much for fact. Things that are solid and tangible and “worthy” of being. And I’m afraid of living my life in a perpetual state of naivety and idealism and childish indecision, but goddammit, life can trap you sometimes, and all I ever wanted to do was to keep the windows opened.