i love this place, but i hate the people here.
but i know this is just a microcosm for the rest of the world, a metaphor; living in manhattan, trying to see the stars is so hard because of all the obnoxious light. trying to hear someone playing a guitar across the street is so difficult because of all the tires on asphalt and truck motors and squeaking breaks and sirens and wailing and and
here, it is never about what you leave behind, it’s what others leave behind for you. where does it come from? i don’t know. it’s here. get fucked up, sleep, wake up, repeat. you live, and then you die. you are no more, no less. why try? “i want i want i want i want”
how self-important you are to think that you will matter to others, because all that matters to the others you want to impress is themselves. we are all alone in this. the people, they love you because in you they see themselves. they love you because they want to be loved, to rise up, to feel better than everyone else, for just a split second; for a lifetime.
how dare you think that you are any better than anyone else, when time only can judge.
