I spent a week away and I have come to realize I don't miss this place that much. All of the time spent here can be easily forgotten and be packed away forever under the more disinterested sectors of the mind. The lack of tangible inspiration and unmerited "cool" amounts to nil for me. It's no wonder it all fell apart here: the lack of substantial soul has plagued this tract for ages. Who needs tastemakers when the tide ebbs and flows without reason or determination?
I fooled myself once into thinking things would be different in this chapter, with a new fire, and it all went belly up without much provocation. I have recently looked at the things I possess as tools for progress. We have to use each and every asset to create our position in life. This place it collecting dust while I can't sit still. Dust means safety. Playing it safe for the sake of preserving some semblance of contentment is no longer regarded in my process. Our current epoch is pocked with uncertainty and retreat. We will forever be castigated as a nation of cowards if we keep this up.
I'm finished with such notions. Perhaps this place does have a touch of inspiration after all: It has shown me how i do not want to live.
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Although this place sucks, it is conteminated and isolated from the fear and the fact of sudden, unexpected disturbance of ones freedom. When leaving home, the door is not locked to avoid a rubbery, it is to prevent the wind opening it. When walking down the street alone, the stranger at 50 feet away is mostly expected as a fuckin hobo, not a criminal waiting to rob you. If you had to choose, would it be fear of death, or being bored?
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