It’s hard not to sink deeply into imposter syndrome, to not be jealous of everyone I meet. Their security in their lives and their sense of self, their impermeable membrane. I think, for just a little, I want to be the untouchable one. The one who isn’t always looking outward, the one who feels my own feelings so strongly I can’t notice anyone else’s. I guess, in some ways, I go to Times Square because it exemplifies all the things I feel I lack: self-absorbed in a way that attracts people to it just to see exactly what is so captivating.
I know that to close the channels that exist between myself and the world would be to give up on ever being a writer. I do wonder if that would be a good thing. Certainly safer and more secure. I have never felt the precariousness of a writing life more than I do now. Still, I know I probably don’t want to close those channels, even if i cannot ever write the way I want to. They are, in many ways, my favorite thing about myself. They have given me my deepest moments of joy. It is almost incomprehensible to me, the fact that one thing can be both my most and least favorite part of myself. Feels like a Greek Tragedy to me, makes me feel like Ouroboros is more than the simple metaphor I thought it to be.
The things I love are the things I hate. The thing I eat is that which I am. The things I let into myself make my life both livable and unlivable. The billboard I come face to face with when I exit the 42nd train station is me, in all my power.