New York was refreshing. Being alone with all the commotion was rejuvenating. I got perspective again. On how I feel about my needs and my goals and my future. It's like this: you see yourself growing old in all that mess. It's a beautiful city. It's always been, it always will be.
I am writing here, in Fairfax, in a room with no air-conditioner. I have had my bitter days, my angry days, my flush of honest, crude writing. But it's stale. It's old and hackneyed and I'm seriously running out of synonyms. I am working on a bigger project, a book...a "book". I am making myself official. I am calling myself a writer. I'm a writer. Damn it.
It's liquidly and disgusting, the sweat that has gathered in this room. I sit on a fake leather seat, sweating, exhausted from summer and my irrelevant ramblings, but I have a goal this time. I have a plan. I have an idea.
And the idea is that I am going to be a really good writer. But for now, I'm falling, deeper, deeper into an ocean of dreams, a chaos of desires.