MISS MOOX + time


The city is big and cold and impersonal. To it, you have neither a face nor a name. It neither knows nor cares you're there. Like a beautiful woman, it preens itself upon the flattering adulation and admiration of anonymous men, sucking up their adoration of its acts and gracefulness as tribute to itself while forgetting who they are.

Once I craved this, seeking refuge in the shelter of anonymity. I loved the fact that I could wander the streets and gaze upon the world almost invisible, becoming simply a part of the mass who consume it. I can be crazy or suicidal or homicidal, and no one sees or cares. I can be the most flamboyant character, and I am simply momentary amusement for the passing throng. I can walk the streets a thousand times while seeing no one whom I know, each face a stranger.

Once, this was solace for my soul. Now, I wonder if it is where I belong. I walk the streets and they repel me at the same time they attract. Stranger in a strange land, I hardly believe I lived here for so long. It sucks my admiration while giving nothing back, save the novelty of experiencing its wealth. I think of the small town where I now live. It seemed so provincial when I first arrived. Now, I can never walk the streets without bumping into someone I know, either closely or remotely. I know all its streets, all its shops, all its faces. That used to be a cause for scorn. Now, I wonder, is it actually a cause for love.

I do not know. I'm no longer sure where I belong.

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Relevant to: City + time