"The last hour is the longest" is a thing I've thunk while riding Greyhounds or Amtraks home. The landscape shifts into what you know as "home" in that cellular way that defies logic, and you become anxious to get off the traveling contraption. All of us are going nowhere in life, always, it's just we leave a lot of shit in one place, and that becomes home. It's still nowhere. That's not bad. It's better to live nowhere than somewhere anyways. If you live somewhere, a bunch of other people come through gawking at shit, trying to get you to take pictures of them standing in front of some dumb shit, and just generally clusterfuck up everything about a normal day with some abnormal not-from-here ways. Living nowhere is a blessing, because you can swing the door open on a warm day, and look out upon all the beautiful nothing, and nobody's fucking it up with cranes or bath and bodyworks or median strips or chik-fil-a zoning approvals. Just a big ol' fat wondrous nothing. I love nothing, and wish I had more of it in my life.
1 comment:
This hits waaay too close to home. This place used to be nowhere but then it became somewhere and started attracting the kinds of people that like to go somewhere. I apparently don’t like those kinds of folks.
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