Usually my mind is on my money and my money's on my mind, but I've been thinking so much of people lately. At four thirty this morning I was lying down in the park under a rotting tree, drinking some very cooled down Darjeeling tea, and I felt like the only living human, the only breathing person, the only thing stirring in the whole world. My brother, Ale, had shown up on my doorstep with two raggedy friends caressing a large watermelon, hours before. I lead them to the new DVDs in our cabinet and proceeded to my bedroom. I feel like people are squeezing and suffocating, breathing my air, speaking their thoughts, arguing amongst themselves. I don't want to be a part of it.
Underneath the hushed, halcyon surface of the gene pool where Wal-mart workers and slave-wage earners ripple gently in the cosmic breeze, there are crags and crevices, uneven places from which unusual genes spring. Rossini and Faure immediately leap to mind, but there are so many I've never heard of and might never know. I read books and watch movies, but what do I really know about the lives of others, of epidurals and starvation and declaring bankruptcy and suicide? I am trapped inside of myself, governing my own rules for empathy, filtering all of the thoughts that come in and out, I might as well have John Ashcroft for a brain. I always thought that a true religious conversion would be like seeing outside of myself for the first time, but I find that consolation in sleep-deprivation, not God. Blah blah Holden Caulfield, blah blah Esther Greenwood, blah blah my petty problems. I'm mawkish and maudlin, there is an Ayn Rand perched pushily on my left shoulder, and a Saint Francis on my right, and I have no internal moral compass, no way of knowing what is truly right or wrong.