Walking & Writing

Today is not about keeping track of time. Time doesn't mean anything to me anymore. Night and day merge into endless darkness, endless light, endless fog. Sleep isn't part of my regime, awareness isn't either. I had to get out, so I got on a bus. I do not know how long I sat there. I could probably estimate how long, but I am not dealing with figures now, with anything measurable. A woman ate an orange on the bus. Who does that? The whole bus reeked of sticky orange.
I got off near a mall in the city. I went in and looked for the toilets. I followed the arrows and ended up walking for miles, in a never-ending spiral, until I finally found them. They do that on purpose, the Mall People, so that you pass every single store in that monstrous mall while you're dying to pee.
Out of the street everything looked different from my town. Every other person was eccentric, bizarre, beautiful. They looked like cutouts from magazines I read, and they were all minding their business. No one looks you in the eye here. I like the anonymity of this situation. I am a mysterious alien and I have time to think. No one asks questions.
I saw a girl sitting on a bench and writing in a notebook. Just like I had done an unknown amount of time before her and just like I am doing now. We are the stars of our own lives, me and her.
Every inch of this city's concrete is plastered with vibrantly coloured posters and scribbled with rebellious graffiti. I think it's beautiful, it evolves, it breathes.
It's amusing how I am strung on no sleep at all. I don't even feel the heaviness, I am numb. I crave to lock eyes with people to know that I exist, that I am not just a whiff of carbon monoxide (Dougles Adam reference).
I am sitting in a dog park. Or at least it's a park, and there are a lot of dogs. Maybe this is just a meeting point for gay men. I spy a lot of couples.
There are catalogue people here. Great bone structures, great eyes, clean. They catch the light. I love their interpretations of fashion, and the way they all bike around, busying themselves with movement. I love how I am lost right now, in the dog park. Every street here leads to a junction that leads to more streets and junctions. My sense of direction is equivalent to that of a blind person. I am fumbling in the dark.
Being in love looks good here, or maybe it just photographs well. Tinsel Town for the masses, multi-cultural Hollywood Boulevard.
I feel myself disintegrate here. I like the feeling. Even if it is just my hair and nails, the dead parts of me. Losing myself is good.
It's all forbidden fruit. Everyone is stunning, but you can't look them in the eye because that it against the rules. Never linger. We are all untouchables.
Even though the atmosphere has defiantly charmed me, somehow it seems fake.
The story of my life.