when one reaches the end of the high road, they must leave the carriage and continue on foot

pertinent only as a post script:

It's Ennui! — his eye brimming with spontaneous tear

He dreams of the gallows in the haze of his hookah.

You know him, reader, this delicate monster,

Hypocritical reader, my likeness, my brother!

i moved to New York because i have only the tiniest idea of what i want to do with my life. i hate it here more than i thought i would, but in the same vein i love it more than i thought it was possible to love a place. i love it by hating it, i guess, i don't really know. i love that i have such a massive amount of time to read. oh and do i read. i'm now the pompous asshole who sits on a bench and says to whoever is listening, "oh yes, I've read some Joyce and his theory of aesthetics, but right now I'm more interested in the form and color theories of Kandinsky and Itten."

naw, jk, i rarely tell anyone what i'm reading for fear of sounding like that kind of asshole. but the NYC used bookstores are definitely a haven for anything i could ever dream of reading, and oh have i been exploiting that (much to the decline of my bank account).

there is a homeless guy who sits at the foot of the 86th street subway station that i pass every day after work. he has a giant gaping wound on his leg and he moans about his misery and his diabetes and his woe, and i never know what to do when i pass him. i mentioned it to Nathan once, and in response he quoted Hamlet. it was appropriate, but i still don't know what to do when i pass him. worse, there was a woman in Union Square holding a baby in one hand and a sign that said "I am tired of prostitution, please help me." ngh, my heart breaks here, sinks, and rises only to be broken 6 blocks later. it's putting something in perspective, that's for sure, but i couldn't say what. there are things that i have noticed that i value less, like the opinions of those who no longer wish to matter in the world or even in my own world, mostly because it seems that the walls of my urban reality have begun to harden around me, while the floors and ceilings disappear. thankfully i noticed this happening to my heart that has always been so bloody and fleshy and ready to open itself to help whatever misery comes into its path, and i halted my defense mechanism's immediate response of indifferent shriveling, and have begun construction on a semi-permeable picket fence complete with daisy chains of prudence and colorful paper pinwheels of insight.

i have a job. i make cappuccinos for the agitated masses of the lower east side, which happens to include a handful of various celebrities. my coworkers consist predominantly of eastern Europeans. it's a good job. it gets me the money i need to pay for the studio. it's only two express stops away, so i only have to wake up at 4:30 in the morning to get to work on time. i have about 3 seconds in between customers to consider their personal lives and troubles and joys before i say, "I can help whoever's next!"
the other day my boss said to me, "Eve, you smile, but in the back of your eyes I can see a sadness." shortly followed by, "I can help whoever's next!" i'm pretty sure the sadness he thinks he saw is just an inability to rectify the eye contact of hundreds of people in the span of an 8 hour shift.

i suppose i actually live in the city now.

i wish i could say that i miss Charleston often, but often does not even begin to cover it. in the back of my mind there is a constant nagging question of whether or not i would have been more happy taking a year to relax before i threw caution to the wind and jumped headlong into a task i was no where near prepared for.

luckily, all it takes is a phone conversation with Matt and i know once again that i made the right decision.