Blase Baby

Deadeningly mundane. She’s begun to feel like a housewife in her bohemian life, which is ironic given her disdain for the commonplace in her day to day, yet somehow all the sparkles have faded back to complacency and ennui. Strolling haplessly every day through the shimmer of ‘alternative lifestyle,’ the scraps of someone else’s dreams resurrected in her tilted aesthetic now acting as evidence of the failure of her relationship with herself. She is crippling herself with boredom, and she would like to throw it all away, but while at one point some of those things were easy because she was young, with age the exuberance has tarnished. And at what point do you put yourself on the shelf? 

Where has all the madness gone. Where is the lust. When did paying bills on time supersede the desire to walk and walk and walk and see something she’s never seen before?

Maybe it’s this city that has last it’s charm. Gagging softly on the last remains of everything interesting about itself while everything else gets coated over with a tacky varnish of acquiescent money culture. It’s every corner filled brimming with white sheep, gleaming white sheep with nothing to say and nothing to add, and therefore all the parties are not more interesting, but merely less frequent and less fervent. 

Or maybe it’s her, and maybe it’s that she’s already met everyone worth meeting, and seen everything worth seeing, and she has visited every place that is worth visiting. And she has grown sick of it, because while the searching has not stop, the finding has, and with that has come the sick sensation of unfulfillment, creasing gently back into itself, building bile and boredom and maybe today is the day to throw out yesterday’s old clothes and old friends.